


Wrath and Ruin

by jhalya



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhalya/pseuds/jhalya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Our love is a boiling ocean, a forest on fire, stars colliding over the seas."</p><p>Thranduil's tale of woe, from the plains of Dagorlad to the battles against the great serpents of the North, and his one true loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_On the plains of Dagorlad_

It is the one hundred fifty second day of the eighth year of war, when Prince Thranduil finally realises just who it is that has crept her way into his first line of soldiers. It is the clear clean sound of a half drawn blade following a crisp cold voice that has Thranduil almost stepping out of the shadows to break the brewing fight between two of his own. Elvish armour hides the soldier's features well, but he now knows. He has been deceived.

"You jest about my height one more time and I'll relieve your miserable shoulders of your wretched head. So then at last we shall be even."

War has been putting a strain on all, and the days fade into growing and ever consuming darkness. Even his Lord Father's army, with its trained and highly disciplined warriors, has begun to feel the gusty breath of discord. And Torwen the Unbroken – now transformed _almost_ beyond recognition and half mad with blood lust – was not among the most patient of her kind.

Thranduil best remembered her for her defiance. His Father, the King, had done her family a great honour by seeing them off as they sailed to the Undying Lands to wile away their grief at losing their son and heir to the endless battles against the foul creatures Evil had stirred in Middle Earth. Only Torwen had lingered, hopeless, yet fearless, as the last lady of a very small household that had once belonged to an ancient and noble family of Elves.

The memories are still with him. When the ship had passed beyond their sight, his Father and his retinue turned to leave at once. War waited on no one, but, in his haste, Oropher would not look Torwen in the eyes. Thranduil believed it was not so much on account of Torwen's obstinate refusal to go with her kith and kin, but because she reminded the Old King so much of her brother, the bravest Elf to have ever commanded an army. Brave and reckless, Thranduil had always thought, but it had not bothered him when they were still winning battles.

As his Father had walked away, Thranduil had spared a moment for Torwen. She had not wept, had not bowed and had not relented. So very brave she was.

"My Father does not understand why you still linger here," he had said.

Torwen had looked at him with cold gold eyes. Her hair was blood red, most unusual, and thick, falling heavily down her back. She was not small, but Thranduil was tall for their kind. Perched as she was on a crumbling step overlooking the sea, they were almost of the same height.

"Neither does mine."

There was no softness in her voice. No weakness.

"But I will not pack my grief and let it dwindle until the memory of my brother's life fades beyond recollection. I will not let my brother's death be pointless. I cannot. It is not in my nature."

Thranduil had bowed his head and let her be. Elves could die of grief. Some more violently than others. But Torwen was brave. And now, the Elven Prince was finding out just how brave and utterly reckless Torwen could be.

"If but your mouth stood higher from the ground, I would perhaps heed your warning. As it is, your words are hot air. Same as your hot head!"

The blades sang in the air, but Thranduil was fast. He was between them in a flash of silver, both soldiers kneeling on the ashen ground.

"ENOUGH! Shame on both of you! Is it blood that you crave? Think you you are _men_? I will drown you both in it, before you bring dishonour upon this army!"

The tawny haired elf of Greenwood would have defended himself, but the deceiver was silent. Thranduil could feel pale gold eyes fixed upon him, calculating. There was a storm raging inside _her_ , but it would not be released on a whim. She could make it rain blood, he had seen her do so, and in a heartbeat, she could gather those dark clouds and lock them inside her.

"Pick up your sword. Go tend to the horses." That was lowly work, but the Greenwood elf vanished without a whisper. "As for you", Thranduil turned to Torwen, still kneeling on the ground, but not at all subdued, "you are confined in my tent, where you shall wait punishment upon my return. Go."

Torwen would not move.

"Now!"

She left, her short sword glittering defiantly where she had dropped it. Thranduil snatched it angrily and almost followed so he could personally cut out her disobedient heart. At last, checking his impulses on these plains of strife, the Elven Prince decided that waiting would serve them both well.

* * *

 

The messenger took long hours to return, but Thranduil was ever patient. Night had fallen and the warm glow of his tent beckoned across the camp, but there was a demon inside it that Thranduil was preparing to tame. He read the words in the missive and armed with their power, he marched to his abode, pushed aside the flap and commanded Torwen to take off her helmet.

"I would look upon your _true_ face, Torwen of Doriath."

"Torwen of the Greenwood Great. I have never seen Doriath."

"Do not be telling me whence you came from! You come from grief, child, and you are poison! Would that I could send you back into the West. I should have tied you to that ship and let your family deal with your madness."

"Madness!? My madness has won you battles!"

"Your brother has won me battles. Do you wish to follow him into the dark? Now, remove your helmet, I said."

With a vicious tug, Torwen threw the golden helmet on the floor between them, where it gently rolled to Thranduil's feet, a challenge.

Thranduil blanched.

"What have you done to yourself?"

The blood red hair was gone, hacked mercilessly to the shoulders, and dyed a muddy black. Dirt was speckled on Torwen's pale face and there was a bruise blossoming on her cheek. Without thinking, Thranduil stepped forward and brushed his fingers against the marred skin. Torwen winced. "A lucky blow, but the helmet deflected most of it. It will heal." The words formed on Thranduil's lips before he could stop himself and magic seeped through his fingers. Tenderly, he touched her cheek again and took away the pain, until her skin was soft again and unblemished.

Impatiently, Torwen slapped his hand away. The sound broke the silence in the room and for a moment their eyes met in shock and regret, before the storm of their tempers got the best of them.

"You dare raise your hand to your Prince?"

"I told you…"

"You have told me enough! You will wash that filth from your hair…"

"It will grow back! I had to…"

"…and take off the armour which you have defiled…"

"What? I most definitely have not and will not…"

"You disobedient little girl! You would argue with me?"

"I would when you're wrong!"

Thranduil's hand sprang and coiled around her head, his thumb digging into her cheekbones. He could not force her and would not break her, but he was most surely planning on intimidating her.

"Careful, Torwen. You test the limits of my admiration. I thought you brave to remain on this Middle Earth, and I will not deny you your prowess on the battle field. But you have deceived me. And you deceive yourself if you think I will let this go unpunished. I will not have you waste the precious gift of immortality on the same bloody grounds on which your brother perished. I will have you endure. I will have your household prosper."

"You will send me away?"

Thranduil released her. "I am saving you! Word has been sent to the steward of your household. He has already sent a party to fetch you. I trust you well enough to survive the journey home."

Torwen's eyes, pale with rage and defeat, glittered.

"Do not send me away. The deceit was wrong, but necessary, my Prince. If you will it, I will regret it. Punish me as you want, but let me finish this. I will follow my lord father, as you command me, after the war is ended. We are so vey close now", Torwen pleaded softly, wringing her hands and looking up at him, "but the Enemy is not as weak as we would have it. If we attack too soon…"

"If we don't attack now, the Enemy will amount his vast hosts and we will be no match…"

"Fool, we are no match now!"

Thranduil's threadbare patience would have snapped to irreparable consequences, had it not been for his squire heralding the summons of his Father, the King.

"I will be with him anon." The squire retreated cautiously.

Torwen was silent for a while, but when she found no mercy in Thranduil's blue eyes, she bowed her head and surrendered.

"Do not _waste the precious gift of immortality_ , my Prince. Your Father and Gil-galad will fight valiantly, but should they charge too early, I fear they will fall into a trap. I leave now, but I, Torwen of the Greenwood Great, will have you promise me, nay, swear to me that when the blade should fall, you will not be so blinded by your greatness as to not look reality in the face. This is not a war a lonely Company of Elves can win."

A lesser elf might have taken issue with Torwen's poorly veiled insults, but Thranduil harboured a fear deep in his heart. To hear it thrown at him by an elf maiden, half his years and half his size, cut deeper than any Morgul blade.

" _My_ Father is _your_ King and your words are treason," Thranduil hissed, before slowly composing himself. "And yet, Torwen the _Unbroken,_ I grant you this promise. I will bring our people home, safe and sound. But by then, you will have learnt how unwise it is to defy me!"

Raising her head high, Torwen crisply pronounced: "As you command."

"I have ordered you a tent. You shall remain there until the arrival of your kin. There will be no guards, and no mercy should you disobey and disappear. Here," Thranduil produced her sword, "take it. You have earned it."

Torwen reached for her sword and without hesitation, took hold of it and sheathed it next to its longer twin. But before she departed, she looked back at Thranduil and said: "I wish I was wrong."

"I do not believe you."

"Yes, you do. But you fear that I am right. Good bye," and she vanished into the night.

Later, as Thranduil was leaving his Father's war council, he thought back at what Torwen had said and the shadow grew darker in his heart.

* * *

 

_Take her by the safest road. I would not have her harmed, no matter how long the journey. There are provisions I have made for you that should last well after you reach the borders of the Greenwood. She is not to leave the lands of her home. And believe me, I will know if she does. Never again will Torwen trifle with war._

* * *

 

Thranduil gave the order to march on the one hundred sixtieth day of the eighth year of war. King Oropher's broken body had been shrouded in preparation for his last journey north. The day dawned red, red as Torwen's blood red hair, as Thranduil had last seen it, cut unevenly short, before her kin had come to fetch her home and doom them all. There were still foul things to fight aplenty and his elves would follow him anywhere, but Thranduil would not be swayed, even when Elrond, battle weary and wise, came to see him.

"I will take my people home. It is a promise I made. You will forgive me for intending to keep it."

"Your Father has pledged…"

"My Father, Lord Elrond, is dead. Alongside the greater part of his company. There is no help I could offer, even if I wished it. They are my people now, what few of them endured. We have bled for Middle-Earth, for Men and Dwarves and all alike, while my woodlands grow darker under the shadow. I will go home and fight my battles there."

And so, King Thranduil led the remnants of his army back to their woodland home, as he had promised, to face his enemies there with what forces were left to him. But always on his mind, Torwen's pale gold eyes starred at him accusingly, cold and unforgiving. Forever unbroken.


	2. Chapter 2

_In the Greenwood Great_

_\- sometimes known as Mirkwood -_

In the Greenwood Great there is a house. It is not a great house carved out of light and living tree, such as one might see in Lorien across the borders, but it is a homely house, full of laughter and good will. Around it, families of Elves have built perhaps bigger, taller houses, in the Clearing, where the water is a playful stream and starlight shines upon the glade, but Mirael of the House of the Last Lady thinks their house is still the nicest of them all.

Mirael was but a child in the time of the Old King, when her father pledged his allegiance to Oropher and still a sapling when he died in battle. She had seen her mother wither away in sorrow and had followed the New King and his people as they migrated away from danger, a barefoot, dirty little thing, until a train of Elves, weary and lagging behind, beyond Thranduil's power, had stopped their flight and stood their ground. Sometimes, when the light of the moon and stars falls just so, in a silver flash, she sees her Lady's sword fighting back the shadow, and the blood, a riot of rubies in the sky. The Red Lady, as the Silvan folk called her, had saved them that day.

"I do not offer you shelter. But I offer you home. I keep these borders safe, under the Marchwarden of the King. It is not an easy life, but the woodlands provide. We will endure."

She had smiled sadly then, but the Red Lady did not have an aptitude for sadness. She dearly loved to laugh, often at the expense of others, and nothing dampened her spirits long enough to invite sorrow. Only when the steward of her House, master Glaewon, called her Torwen the Unbroken, in Sindarin, did her Lady narrow her great golden eyes and look at him in such a manner that made the master laugh a bellyful.

"Is our Lady crossed?" Mirael would ask.

"She is crossed with herself, child. Torwen has but one weakness."

Mirael found that hard to believe. The Red Lady had no weakness as she rode on a great big horse to battle border scum, dressed in Silvan garb, her long red hair a river of blood flowing behind her. Mirael loved nothing better than to brush the thick red strands over and over again, until her Lady begged her to stop.

"It will not look prettier than this, Mira-child, so let me be."

Oh, but it was beautiful. Mirael herself had auburn hair, the colour of the forests in autumn, but Torwen's fell down her back, a living red thing, curling at the ends. She despaired of it, wanting to keep it forever in braids, but master Glaewon was adamant about it. "Now, now, Torwen, with such clothes you wear, your hair is the only mark of you being a Lady."

Brown and green and black tunics with a man's cut about them was Torwen's daily uniform. Even so, Mirael would have never mistaken Torwen for a man. She was not tall of built – a thing she complained of on a regular basis – with small shoulders, yet strong hands, a straight posture and high breasts, swift and nimble and tireless.

Sometimes, when the Silvan folk reveled in the Clearing, Torwen would don gowns of dark silver with deep red sashes and long velvet robes that made her look fearsome. She had a commanding voice and a mocking hauteur that had first scared Mirael until Torwen had dissolved in a fit of giggles over her own folly.

"The King could not have made a better entrance, my dear," master Glaewon often remarked.

"Of course he could. It is one of the things Thranduil does best."

Torwen was the only Elf Mirael knew that spoke of their King so casually.

"I knew the King long ago, Mirael. So you can stop looking so shocked."

"Would he not then take offence at you speaking of him like that?"

"I'd wager he would. But what the King does not hear, well, little one, then that's that and I can have my merriment."

What Torwen did not suffer, however, were other people having their merriment at the King's expense. The loss, the shadow, the fear made grumblers of many.

"Your people chose to be soldiers and soldiers die", Torwen often scolded the riotous Silvan Elves. "One Elf cannot fight the shadow alone. We stand united under our King or we fall."

Peace was not easy to come by, not in Mirkwood, but with the borders vigilantly patrolled under the Marchwarden of the King and Torwen's steady golden gaze, Mirael and the people of the Clearing were enjoying a rather long spell of it. There were now two scores of houses in the Clearing, some high up in the trees, some down in the undergrowth of the forest, some like her Lady's own, build around a tall oak. The Fair Folk of the capital had moved some of their households in the Clearing, for the springs and the revels and the still clear blue skies and the Marchwarden now held the tallest house north of the border. He sprang from Lorien, they said, and his ilk was fair of face and hair, and his daughter, Lirael, was fairest of them all. She walked as if in a silver glow and her blue eyes shone with pure starlight.

"She is the type songs are made of. She is a walking song, Mira-child. Beautiful and true." And Torwen would sing under her breath, and Mirael would forget all grief, all sorrow, for her Lady had a magical, enchanting voice.

"You are Luthien come again."

"Nonsense, child!" Torwen would laugh. "Such songs as I sing are not for the Luthiens and Liraels of this Middle Earth."

Torwen made the blades sing.

"But we are at peace now. My Lady can sing songs of joy!"

If Mirael was especially good and did not get into arguments with the maids and stewards of other houses, Torwen would sing for her, love songs and happy songs and songs of the forest. And the people of the Clearing would gather around the little house around the tall oak and sing and dance the night away. It was always the happiest of times for Mirael. Torwen liked a merry tune and a stouter dance than the tree-folk and such fairy rings they burned into the ground that one could still see for days.

Among those who enjoyed the company of the Last House, the brothers Elwen and Eldir pleased Torwen to entertain. Elwen was a sweet thing, wise beyond her years, all high cheekbones and creamy skin and with a passable skill with the harp, but "…withering in the shadow her luminous cousin casts, the poor thing" Torwen would sometimes say. Eldir was a fine youth with large, soulful eyes that made Mirael blush. But he was shy and in constant awe and fear of mighty Torwen.

"I don't know about you, but I like him. He keeps a respectful distance, which pleases me to no end, as he is quite taller than I."

Her Lady would tease Mirael mercilessly about the boy's infatuation with her, but Mirael would not relent. "He is the one who must come forth. Sighs and long stares across the canopy will not draw me closer." And Torwen would laugh and laugh and laugh all through dinner and breakfast the next day.

And so, their lives carried on in the Clearing, with nothing but Torwen's bloody swords or empty quiver to darken their days. Until, one day, a day no different than the rest, Elwen came gliding down the tree marble stairs to rest under the oak, where Mirael was washing her Lady's linen in the spring.

"Good day, my little friend."

"M'lady!" Mirael stood up, smiling brightly. There was a curious look in Elwen's eyes and a tilt to her lips that Mirael had not seen before. "Should I call for refreshments…"

"No, no, none of that. I am sure you are quite busy with preparations for the upcoming feast."

"The feast is still some time away and master Glaewon says that he never knows what Lady Torwen plans to do, so we should wait for her return. I know your uncle, the Marchwarden, said that all should be in readiness, but…"

"Well, I suspect my uncle would want everything in readiness, so he may have time to make any necessary adjustments."

"Adjustments? What for?"

"Oh, for a royal feast of course."

"His lordship plans on visiting the capital?"

Elwen had a pleasant laugh, like the tinkling of bells.

"No, Mira-child, but the capital plans on visiting us."

Mirael dropped the linen in the cool water and it would have floated down the spring had she not had the senses to snatch it up quickly.

"The King…"

" _Lord_ Thranduil would honour my uncle's table with his presence. Nothing more. "

"It is a long way just to honour somebody's table." Mirael wrinkled her pert little nose in disbelief.

Elwen smiled that secret smile again. "Rumour has it our King is scouting the realm for a Queen."

"Ohhh…"

"He must marry, you see. The time is right. We are at peace. Guarded and watchful, but peace nonetheless. Thranduil must have an heir. It is unusual for one so old to have gone so long without a wife."

"Perhaps he has lacked the affection."

Elwen rose from under the oak. "Affection he has had aplenty. Thranduil is fair beyond measure. He is a good and brave King. But I fear it is love he waits for."

"Fear? Why should one fear love, milady Elwen?"

"Because when one loves as fiercely as Thranduil King does, one might have to wait a rather long wait."

Mirael bowed and said: "I do not understand your meaning, milady."

"I know. My cousin, Lirael, does not understand it either, though serene as she is, her heart beats faster these days. Torwen might know. You could ask her, when she returns."

Elwen took Mirael's hand and kissed her brow.

"Yes, I do believe the answer lies with Torwen."

* * *

 

"The King? In the Clearing?" Torwen gulped down the watered wine and dove into her salad. "What for?"

"Business with the Marchwarden, I presume. Nothing to do with us."

Master Glaewon was picking at his mushrooms again.

"Mira?"

Mirael had been avoiding her Lady's eyes since Torwen arrived from her patrol. The talk with Elwen under the oak had left her wandering, wanting desperately to ask Torwen about their King, but dreading the pale gold stare.

"It is the hope of the… _the realm_ …that our King should marry."

Torwen uncharacteristically chocked on her wine. "Thranduil? Marry? By the next Feast? Unfathomable!"

"Why so?" Mirael asked, hoping to divine an answer to Elwen's riddle. "Lady Lirael's beauty is worthy of a King's attention."

"Lirael walks with the stars in the sky, child, but if we are to wait for Thranduil to marry, we might have to wait a rather long wait."

Mirael started. "Why?"

"The man takes weeks to decide which sash best compliments which tunic. He accessorizes his crown with the seasons. If he has made his mind to choose a Queen, then a Queen we shall have. Roughly around the dawn of the Fourth Age. He is cautious to a fault, our King is."

"That is true, though we do live in cautious times," master Glaewon said. "But Lirael and her beauty are treacherous. She is _too_ fair."

"Well, she can't help it. She's part Noldorin! So are you. So am I for that matter, though highly diluted, to hear my father tell of it."

"Well, I don't look it! But Lirael… Can you imagine, a Noldorin Queen of Lorien descent, ruling from a Sindarin court over a population of Silvan Elves? She would have to be a very beautiful thing indeed for Thranduil to behold."

Mirael chimed in softly. "She's already half in love with him."

"Well, she'd be half a fool not to be in love with him. Thranduil is fair to look upon. Even if he does accessorize his crown with…flowers."

"It was berries and leaves, Torwen. It is a Silvan custom."

"Regardless. The King will come. All shall marvel and despair at his perfection. If he leaves engaged, that is up to him and not us."

Later, Mirael could not recall from whence she had dredged the courage to ask: "Will my Lady be half in love with him as well? When he comes?"

Torwen rose gracefully from hear seat at the head of the table and smiled her unbroken smile. "It is one's duty to love one's king. Though I rather wished I could hate him. Alas, I cannot. He has kept his promise. I could ask for nothing more."

"I could ask for him not to notice us. Or, my precious Torwen, promise or no promise, you will have to account for all your trifling with war at the borders."

Torwen laughed heartily at good master Glaewon.

"Be at ease, my lord. A few skirmishes here and there do not amount to much of a war. Plus, as long as Lirael stands up, our King will have no reason to look down."

* * *

 

It amused Torwen that the Marchwarden tried so hard at being inconspicuous about his royal visitors and yet failed so badly. His kitchens' were under constant strain since his lordship changed his mind on the contents of his tables with every turn of the sun. It was the ever patient Lirael who had eased his poor nerves by taking a surprisingly strong hold of the whole affair. Which was all well and good, as Torwen highly doubted that an eclectic display of mushrooms and mushrooms and some more mushrooms, however delicious and rare, would satisfy Thranduil's kingly appetites.

What was more, the King had a devout craving for lettuce and was a religious eater of roots. Throw in an apple or two, and he'd munch contentedly for the rest of the meal. She'd seen him dine on the battlefield enough times to know his habits.

"None of which matters now, fool", Torwen chided herself. She had not seen Thranduil since he'd last set his capital and she'd permanently relocated to the borderlands. He had seemed to her then larger than life, broader in the shoulders and leaner in the face. But then again, he'd been only a Prince in Dagorlad and now he was a King. He carried the weight of their dangerous world well, and he _had_ kept his promise, so Torwen had made a decision. She had not the temperament to deal with a court of Elves, but orcs and other foul beasts she'd keep away from Thranduil's magnificence. She had packed her household and her people and together with an adventurous master Glaewon, marched the other way, far away from Thranduil's alluring light. Torwen had rather hoped he wouldn't bother to follow up on his orders from long ago and was content to have slipped unnoticed, for word of Thranduil's punishment had not yet reached them. And now he was coming here.

"He comes and he goes as he pleases. He is King," Torwen muttered angrily – angry with herself for giving this such unwarranted thought.

"With whom are you speaking, Torwen?"

"My lowly self, Marchwarden. How can one be of service?" The Marchwarden looked troubled, the composed, confident mien he had been working on for days having crumbled under some sort of anxiousness.

"I did send Elwen and Eldir with the company to gather aromatic herbs for the dinner tonight. I did. They have just returned and Elwen is utterly inconsolable."

Elwen was nothing but good nature and bright summer laughs. "How so?"

"She has lost a treasured keepsake. A bracelet, you may have seen it. Her mother wore it. She says there was something lurking in the bushes and the bracelet got caught on a twig as she retreated. Eldir says he might have killed it but the bracelet was not found."

"What manner of thing did Eldir slay?"

"A critter of sorts. And now, of all days! I would ask you, Torwen, take my men. They will show you the way. I'm afraid Eldir I cannot spare, not tonight, though he has gotten it into his head that he should go back. Find the bracelet if you can, Torwen. Make sure the critters shan't disturb us again."

It was a feral smile that graced Torwen's lips.

"As you command."

* * *

 

Thranduil King was already at his second helping of salad and the Marchwarden had not yet finished his tale of how he built his rather extravagant house after having defeated a host of enemies that grew larger with every mushroom he ate. And Thranduil had never seen so many mushrooms at a dinner table in all the long years of his immortal life.

The weather had kept for his visit, so Thranduil had insisted on dining on the terrace, which offered a nice view of the Clearing and its people. The Marchwarden had not been thrilled, but Lirael had smiled approvingly. She had a fetching smile, honest and warm, and her beauty shone brighter for it.

The Clearing was also not without its soft kind of beauty. These were gentle folk, but with a heart of steel underneath their bright smiles and merry disposition. Truly, Thranduil marveled at their resilience. The borderlands were dark, perilous realms, but here, his people had built a strong, enduring home. The air was full of clean Elven magic.

"Pray, tell me, young Eldir, what is the name of the pretty little thing that has captured your heart and your attention for the night?"

Eldir paled and his uncle sputtered, but Lirael answered smoothly: "She is Mirael, of the House under the Tree. And Eldir hopes to make us happy with news of their union soon enough, isn't that right, cousin?"

"Ah, a wedding! A joyous event! We have been rather shy of these of late, but young Eldir seems off to a good start. We hope to have more of such events and soon, my King, do you not agree?" Lord Calaron did not do subtlety very well, but seeing as he was the most enthusiastic in his retinue, Thranduil merely arched a perfectly condescending eyebrow and returned his attention to Eldir.

"So you wish to marry the maiden Mirael?" The poor boy had been shooting her looks all throughout dinner, but the little sprite had not seemed impressed. She had gazed in open admiration at Thranduil for a while, until she had furrowed her brows and turned her nose skywards in a gesture so childish and sincere she had made Thranduil smile. "What does she say of it?"

"Nothing," Elwen replied. "My brother has not asked her yet."

"Is there an impediment?"

Lirael snorted and her father sputtered some more. Thranduil reached behind the Marchwarden's back with his long arm and gave him a hearty pat between his shoulder blades. "Must be the mushrooms, Marchwarden, do be careful."

Down below, Mirael was laughing, her tiny face alight with merriment.

In the distance, a horn rang, signaling the return of a border patrol. Thranduil watched carefully as Mirael sprang to her feet, ran across the bridge and stood there waiting.

"The patrols…" the Marchwarden began.

"They are returning rather early," Elwen also rose, excusing herself and fleeing down the steps.

"Problems, Marchwarden?" Thranduil enquired. There was a restlessness growing inside himself. There was magic here, strong Elven magic that could not come from the Marchwarden. That much had been clear to the King for a long time. The heart of the Clearing was not inside the white halls of the Marchwarden's tree house, but it dwelt in the small house under the oak, with banners as red as blood, a colour which put Thranduil's heart on a watchful guard.

"I should not think so."

"Hm. Most intriguing." For a moment, the Marchwarden looked more convinced than he had looked for most part of Thranduil's visit there.

In the Clearing below, Elves were peeping from windows and doors and Mirael had vanished in the darkness beyond. But as the company drew near, Thranduil could hear a woman's singing, a melancholy melody, but strong enough to reach them in the Clearing.

 _Lark, oh, skylark,_  
what has come over you?  
Singing on the plains,  
alone in the cornfield,  
without your companion?

 _It's come over me_  
since last year,  
when I made my nest  
in a furrow made by the plough.  
The plough didn't know,  
it tore up my nest,  
my chicks were all dead.  
So I set out  
to fly in the wind,  
so I can hit the ground  
and die sooner myself.

On a large grey horse, a hooded rider entered the Clearing. It had Mirael perched in the front and a crown of twigs and wild roses hanging from the saddle. It crossed the bridge at a trot and Elwen stepped down to meet them. Mirael hopped off and took hold of the reins as the rider bowed to whisper to Elwen and hand her a glittering jewel. Thranduil could now see that there was a red piece of cloth wrapped around the rider's thigh and Elwen touched it gently. The rider laughed, a rich, throaty sound, and dismounted, a bit wobbly on the right foot.

"The jewel I give to you, Elwen fair, and my thanks to Eldir. He did a stellar job slaying that animal. Pity it had cousins. As for my little Mira, behold, a crown. It's the latest fashion. I made it myself, while I waited for this unfortunate bleeding to stop. You can go ahead and wear it as you like, but, I beg you, stop looking so smitten. As for me, a beggar I come at my own door. Feed me, for God's sake, pour me a drop of wine and send me to my rest. I have had enough for one day."

Her voice had not changed over the years. It still held the same cool control, even as she jested and mocked, that kept the storm at bay. Torwen hurt.

"Marchwarden…"

"…yes, my King…"

"Pour me a glass of wine. I feel a thirst coming."

* * *

 

Dawn broke with remarkable bravery for Torwen's foul mood. It had been a shallow cut, but a scratch was all it took to let the poison unbalance even the most resilient of Elves. Unfortunately for Torwen, the antidote Elwen made sure to prepare for all was strong enough to knock out a raging bull. In consequence, the wound had healed beautifully, but Torwen's head was a symphony of orc battle drums. She had ordered a clear broth from the kitchen and now she was sitting forlornly in the solar looking at her pitiful reflection in the yellow liquid.

"My lady Torwen!"

"Eldir, not so loud, if you please. It is rather early in the morning."

"It is almost noon, milady."

Torwen shot him an aggravated look, but Eldir, dressed radiantly in gold cloth, smiled his way through it. The Elf bowed.

"My Lady Torwen, I humbly request an audience with your serenity."

"My serenity is indisposed. Can it wait?" That should send him running, Torwen thought, but Eldir simply smiled again, an obnoxiously toothy grin.

"I'm afraid it cannot. You see, I have come here to marry."

That stunned Torwen into perfect clarity. She rose swiftly, almost knocking down the tableware. "You cannot, I'm not dressed for the occasion! Mira," Torwen shouted, "my silver tunic! No! The green robe with that nice iridescent pattern! Wait! What am I doing?"

"Getting dressed?" Eldir supplied helpfully.

"Child, will you have my Mira?" Torwen asked earnestly.

Eldir nodded with much enthusiasm.

"Mira," Torwen turned to a bewildered Mirael, who was clutching her Lady's favourite silver robe with the dark red lining, "this man would have you as his wife. What say you?"

Mirael was mute. Torwen would have none of it, though.

"Mirael, I have my heart set on celebrating a union at the upcoming feast. Blame it on the Marchwarden, he put the idea in my head. We are low on mushrooms, true, but I have a barrel of fine vintage wine that I've been saving for a special occasion. I'd rather not wait a lifetime to sample it, so be quick. Aye or nay?"

"Why must this be a competition?" Mirael asked meaningfully.

"It's not a competition if I win. It's called a victory. Petty and small, but a victory nonetheless. I crave it."

"We have the King's blessing, if that's what fashes you", Eldir added, his smile undimmed.

"See, you have the King's…What?!"

"He's the one who encouraged me to come and ask you. He said my lady Torwen would not object to our union. He seemed quite certain. _Most definitely_ ¸ he said. He insisted I do it today, even."

" _Most_ extraordinary!" Master Glaewon walked into the solar. "How easily our King sees into the hearts of his people." His face was serious, but his eyes were full of mirth. "Mirael, do not keep the realm waiting. Will you marry Eldir of the Clearing?"

Mirael burst out laughing, but there was a tender feeling in her dark eyes. "Aye, I'll marry him! One can hardly displease a King."

Eldir bowed and blushed and would have disposed with propriety altogether had Torwen not erupted: "That still counts as my victory! He will be married before the King!"

Across the Clearing, high up, in the Marchwarden's house, Thranduil, Elven King of Greenwood, sitting on the terrace, his keen senses on high alert, conceded Torwen her precious victory.

* * *

 

Unlike Torwen, Thranduil had woken up in a terribly good mood. Favourable prospects always motivated Thranduil. With Torwen finally accounted for and at his mercy, the borders safe and the Marchwarden's wine fairly palatable, Thranduil was anticipating a marvelous conclusion to his visit. Naturally, Lord Calaron had been highly suspicious of this Red Torwen, but Lirael, bless her, had sung her praises to the high heavens. It did not matter. Thranduil had little love for courtiers and even less patience, a fact Calaron was well aware of. He shut up right after breakfast.

Thranduil had allowed Torwen's little sprite what happiness was in his power to give, but once the little house under the oak tree had settled down, he had donned his light armour, called for his horse, rode it across the same bridge Torwen had come in last night and in his best battlefield voice, ordered "Torwen! To me!"

It did not take long for the grey horse and its rider to follow.  
"My King."

"I would look upon this beast that broke your skin. I will not have more of its ilk in my lands."

"Follow me, my King."

Thranduil followed.

* * *

 

"You may speak to me, Torwen. The bad sentiments between us are long behind us now."

Thranduil was met with the same stony silence that had graced the best part of their journey back to the Clearing.

"You may also thank me. I saved your life. I have the wound to prove it."

That riled her up. "Wounds you would not have incurred…" Torwen hissed, " …had you but listened. You never listen!"

"And you never obey. What an unfortunate pair we make."

"I had the damn thing in my line of shot."

"Hardly. You're terrible with a bow."

"That is not the point! You are my King! You do not get to risk your life uselessly, when I had everything under control!"

They'd been having the same argument since Torwen had viciously stripped him of his pierced armour and poured liberal amounts of healing salve between threats, curses and some of the most foul insults ever to come out of the mouths of Elves. That had been hours ago.

Now, they came upon a stream and Thranduil led his horse to the water.

"The Clearing is not far ahead."

"We stop here. This bandage of yours is beginning to seep."

Thranduil dismounted and sat on a rock nearby. The armour had not been salvageable, so that was gone, but Thranduil took off his ruined tunic and his soiled undershirt. He poked at the wound in his shoulder and found the pain to be manageable. It had not been the tragedy Torwen made it out to be. Thranduil lamented though the loss of his silver undershirt. It had been one of his favourites. He regretted having chosen it for his ride in the morning, but he had been overcome by a desire to impress. He hadn't thought of battling giant spiders when he'd picked it out and now it was too late.

The tunic he might be yet able to repair, so with that encouraging thought in mind, he unraveled the bandage and called: "Torwen, come here."

When there was no movement behind him, Thranduil looked over his bare shoulder. Torwen's eyes had grown huge on her face. Her chest was rising and falling in an erratic cadence and had Thranduil been a lesser Elf, he might have feared for his life. Or his honour. He was preparing to tease her about in when Torwen cocked her head to the side and narrowed her gold eyes. "Isn't it some kind of treason to witness the King in such state of undress?"

Thranduil thought about it for a moment. "I do not think so. Though I'm rather curious as to what sort of explanation you'll come up with when you return your King to the Clearing half naked and bloody."

"Then put that thing on!" Torwen jabbed a finger in the direction of his dark tunic.

"Anon. I need you here first."

Torwen marched angrily in front of Thranduil and clenched her fists to her sides. Even seated, Thranduil seemed to tower over her, the ends of his silver and gold hair tinted black and red by blood and dirt.

Thranduil looked her once over. Gone was the deceiver with the hacked up hair and pale gold eyes. Gone was also the Lady at the Havens, watching her family depart for lands of bliss she had forsaken. In Silvan garb, swords and daggers and a gilded quiver of arrows sparkling in the Sun, Torwen looked strong and capable in her own true right. Her hair had grown long, but it still had the same unusual thickness and colouring. The Red Lady indeed. Thranduil was tempted to pull on one of her heavy forelocks, just to test its weight and texture.

"Well?"

"Unclench your fists for starters and fetch me some water from the stream."

Torwen huffed but did as she was bidden.

"Try not to spill it, please."

In the cup of her hands, Torwen returned with cool spring water. Thranduil took her small hands into his and closed his eyes, murmuring a prayer. Torwen's hands were soft, softer than he'd thought anything about her was, and the water kept within had made them cold. Thranduil's vigorous magic seeped into her, a heat wave that made Torwen dizzy.

Thranduil opened his clear blue eyes, raised her hands to his lips and drank the sparkling liquid. Torwen watched fascinated as his bruised and cut shoulder shivered and shimmered and the flesh turned pale and perfect once more. There was a speckling of freckles where the spider had caught him, but nothing to indicate there having ever been a wound.

Torwen raised her hand to touch it, but she wouldn't dare. It still shimmered slightly in the light of the sun. Thranduil wrapped his fingers around hers and pressed her palm to his skin. It was warm and Thranduil's immortal spirit thrummed steadily under her touch.

"It is the gift of my Father and my Father's Father and so forth, down from the Kings of Doriath. I do not gamble with my life, Torwen. Nor with that of my people."

"Forgive me, my King." Torwen bowed her head humbly. "For everything."

Thranduil tightened his hold on her hand and spoke:

"I have forgiven you long ago. Your life is precious to me, Torwen. _You_ are precious to me, Torwen the Unbroken."

Thranduil had never seen fear in Torwen's eyes but he fancied he was witnessing it now. He did not release her hand and with his other he cupped her startled face.

"Now you fear me? When I would give you my heart? It is you who will not listen and I who would not obey. Had I done so, I would have pledged you my life, my realm and all the love I have within me to give on that damn battlefield, so many years ago. My heart spoke true then, but I would not heed it. Now you must listen to it. Hear it beat. It calls for you. It always has. It is your magic that brought me here. Your magic that built this place where I might find peace and you again."

"Peace? We almost died today and for what? A whim. This is folly, my King. This is not love. There is no magic in me. You…you cannot…"

"Love is madness, Torwen, my precious one. You might find this swift, but I have had years to think on it. I have been patient. I have waited. For you to stop pushing those who love you away."

Torwen ripped her hand away and pushed back.

"Your words are poison."

"Yes, they are, sweet and lethal. Rage away, Torwen. Let the storm free if you must. We are not Men. Our hearts are not confused. If it is a fight you wish, I would give it to you gladly."

"You are out of your mind. What are you doing?" Thranduil had risen and the look in his eyes turned cold.

"You have had your victories, I would have mine." He was upon her with a sword in a flash of silver and gold. Torwen parried on instinct, but the blows Thranduil rained on her were relentless. There was a pain blossoming in Torwen's chest and tears had sprung to her eyes.

"What is this pain? Why are you doing this?"

"This…" Thranduil viciously hammered her down, "…is hatred, Torwen. Anger. Disappointment. You want it? For I will not have it!"

Torwen's sword plopped in the shallow water with a silver wail and Torwen herself fell to her knees, whipping furiously at her tears. "Why does this hurt so much?" she sobbed.

"Because my love is real and you know it. Come to me now, Torwen, end our suffering. We have both waited so long."

Torwen flew into Thranduil's open arms and cried miserably into his chest. He held her tight, burying his head into her thick red hair. "Torwen, my unbroken one, you have bewitched me, body and soul. I am yours for all the ages of this world."

Torwen looked up at him, her fingers tangled in his hair. In the light of the setting sun, it shone with pure fire. She rose, then, to meet his lips and whisper softly: "Take this pain away from me now. If this is your hate, I do not want it." Thranduil smiled, kissing her firmly on her brow before sweeping in for a hungry, soul searing kiss. "My Torwen," he said, tasting the salt of her tears on her lips, the secret fragrance behind her delicate, pointy ears, the soft skin of her neck, her warm, sweet mouth again, "...my Red Queen."

* * *

 

_Our love is a boiling ocean, a forest on fire, stars colliding over the seas._

_Our love is sharp and sweet, silver music and blades at play, red as blood, golden as the sun. Our love shall endure_

_The dimming of the world, the twilight of the gods_

_the fall of the moon and the eruption of the sun._

_Our love is beyond wrath,_

_Beyond ruin,_

_Eternal and forever bright._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The song Torwen sings upon entering the Clearing is a Romanian folk song. You can find it in its original version if you type in Maria Lataretu – Lie Ciorcarlie into YouTube. That's the song that was playing in my head when I wrote this.


	3. Chapter 3

_An unexpected courtship_

She dreamt she was a child again, with her Lady Mother, visiting the wood's witch. An ancient thing the Silvan witch was, with skin as pale as moonlight and flowers growing in her deep brown hair. Her eyes were marble white, yet she spoke first upon their arrival:

"So you would bring blood and flame to the ruin of my house?" Her voice had been thunderous under the canopy of tall oaks and twisted birch. It had startled her Mother, who was still new to this woodland realm and its eery ways.

But her Mother was a Princess of Doriath and she soon composed herself: "I bring only good will and the fruits of our harvest, sister. I seek but wisdom in return, as is your custom." Her Mother's Silvan speech was flawless, as was everything about her.

"The fruits of your harvest indeed", the witch laughed not a laugh, but a sorrowful sort of cackle. "Have you ever seen, Lady, the mists above a lake deep in the forest green? Their dance is slow and steady in the dying night, but soon as the sun breaches the sky, first red, then golden upon the water, they scatter and vanish like vanquished wraiths. You are the mist, Lady, _grey_ as a shadow in a world of bliss. But your child is the sun over these woods..."

"My son...," her Mother whispered with love and pride. A golden son she had brought forth into the world and, later on, a red daughter, but the bulk of her affections had always lain with the former rather than the latter.

"...is a walking shadow on this realm," the wood's witch hissed impatiently to the mounting horror in her Mother's starlit eyes. "It is _this child_ you bring with you now who will have a son when her sun is set. And long shall be our night, before her son makes the sun rise again."

The wood's witch turned her blind eyes away from them then and would see them no longer. Her Mother, her light all but fading, left her offerings and nearly fled but the child would not forgive so easily. She wrenched her hand free of her Mother's grasp and grabbed a handful of flowers from the witch's hair. "Why did you frighten her so? She came here to honour you! Do not turn your back on us and hide behind your evil crafted words! Say you're sorry!"

She had been so small then, not nearly close enough to her prime, but the Silvan witch had spoken to her spirit when next she had said, in the Sindarin of her Mother's house: "She has no great love for you, the late red child of her womb, and yet you defend her, your world-weary mother. But you are one of us now, Torwen, Maiden of the Great Greenwood. Your old name from Doriath has no power here."

The witch looked at Torwen's beautiful, pale Mother and thanked her for the gifts. "They are well received, Lady. What wisdom I can give you is late in coming, but to Torwen I give the leaf blades," and the witch produced two leaves from her hair, "and the wind so she may ride upon it", and when she blew on the leaves they rose into the air. "Go with your Lady Mother now, child. The hour is late and your brother returns from his hunt."

Torwen never saw the Silvan witch again, but that night, long ago, when little Torwen had lain in her bed, the witch's voice had sung to her:

_Blood is in your hair and fire in your eyes. I give you two swords for blood and for the fire, the wind to ride above it._

* * *

 

It was supposed to be an uneventful journey. The summons had arrived the week before, a royal sealed piece of parchment with Thranduil's very own bold silver script etched upon it, entreating Torwen of the Last House of Doriath to grace the court with her presence. Mirael had brought the letter herself, snatching it from the bewildered hands of the messenger and, taking two steps at a time, delivered it to Torwen.

"From the King," she'd said, breathlessly.

"The King is clearly mad! I do not know what manner of sickness has come upon him, but he is not well. What grace have I? My sole quality lies in my stellar ability of laughing at him without other people noticing. What kind of King would suffer that?" Torwen had ranted and raved the hundredth time she had read the letter, carefully tracing each silver loop.

_Come to me now and end our suffering._

And she had gone to him, into his strong arms, into his powerful magic, even though Torwen had never known the kind of love Thranduil spoke of. The affection her ethereal mother had shared with her gentle father had been more of a falling out of love with the world around them and a falling in love with the idea of the two of them together. Her beautiful brother had basked in their adoration, leaving a young Torwen with an untapped pool of love she had no notion what to do with.

In her youth, Torwen had hopped that, should she be able to protect the happiness of her family, she would be loved in return, if only selfishly so. She had sheltered her mother from the Silvan ways she did not comprehend, her father from her mother's increasing weariness with the world, and her brother from the wolf of loneliness that howled within Torwen's own heart. And yet, each of them had left her, content in the knowledge that Torwen's strength would shield her from the sorrow they had succumbed to.

In their wake, now truly alone in a world under the shadow of evil, Torwen had fallen back on her old ways and fought. She had fought to save her world from shadow and death, her realm from the tendrils of the dying dark, and the pure silver gold light of Thranduil's reign of taint.

But Thranduil was her King, that was her duty. In Dagorlad, however, she had chosen his company to fight in. She had told herself it was only in return of the kindness he had done her in the Havens when he had acknowledged her decision to stay. But now, her heart whispered that she had long favoured Thranduil above all others.

"And why should I not?" Torwen scolded herself. Elven men were a handsome lot, but the tall King of Greenwood with his hair of sun and stars was truly beautiful. Maidens across the realm swooned at the mere mention of his name and not a few young lordlings as well. Thranduil was a skilled commander, a deadly warrior and a just, if only overly cautious King. What could such a great Elf Lord see in her?

Torwen the Unbroken, the defiant, the deceiver.

She had no aptitude for censoring her words, and she was far more reckless than she was wise. Despite her Mother's best efforts, her lady-ing ways lacked much to be desired and the only place where Torwen truly felt proficient was on a battlefield. But Thranduil was not speaking of battles and war when he called her to him. He spoke of them building a home, protecting the realm. Together. He spoke of need and love and Torwen wanted to hit something.

"We leave for the capital at dawn," she'd barked her orders at a ridiculously content Glaewon. "I will teach our King some reason!" Surely, whatever ailment had plagued him in the Clearing had been killed stone dead in his great big halls. Did he not have advisers? Did he never listen?

"Torwen…" master Glaewon came to her. "Child of wonder, look at me."

She was packing furiously, hurling things on top of each other, before she realized that perhaps it would not do to make an appearance clad in border rags, even if she was trying to make a point. She started unpacking, right around the time Glaewon ran short on patience.

"Torwen!"

"What!"

"Oh, Eru is mighty! I'd rather reason with a Dwarf!"

Torwen flung a sash at him, but it just fluttered in the air, landing forlornly at their feet. Glaewon snickered and took Torwen's hands in his, the little hands he had watched over since birth.

"Love is not a weakness, my child. You do not have to be ever strong. Ever mistrustful. Ever afraid that the love we carry for you might vanish into thin air. Tall are the walls you have built around your heart, Torwen the Unbroken. But I know my King. He will prevail. Fight if you must, but do not fight so hard."

"He says the same," Torwen grudgingly admitted.

"Then there must be some truth in our words. If hearts were as easily commanded as armies, perhaps it might have been our fair Lirael now receiving these summons. But they are not. It is you he wants. It is you the realm needs. Not a silent, pretty queen, but a Queen people would die for. A Queen worth fighting for."

"He does not know me."

"Then you do not know yourself."

He had left her then, to prepare for the journey ahead. A small company of Elves and Mirael travelled with her, for the Marchwarden, feeling cheated, but unwilling to incur the King's displeasure, had ordered that no future daughter of his House – and looking pointedly at Mirael, he'd scoffed – would go to the capital unattended.

"Rejoice, Mira-child. You're travelling in style!"

That had put Torwen in better spirits, as they set out on the Green Road to the Elvenking's Halls. This deep into the Greenwood, the forest still breathed a fresh air, but a shadow was creeping in at its edges. Astride her grey horse, Torwen rode ahead, her keen senses on high alert, as a peculiar restlessness gripped her heart tightly. They had taken the safer road, but Torwen was beginning to regret it. Something was amiss.

"Mirael!"

"Yes, Lady!" Mirael was rode her mare alongside her Lady.

"It occurred to me that we're doing this wrong. I remember my Lady Mother distinctly saying that a Lady of Doriath never arrives anywhere like a common Elf. So, take your company of Elves and ride ahead and let the Halls know Thranduil's would be Queen will grace them with her presence. I will not tarry long behind you."

"Milady, you cannot mean to…"

"I mean to take only a dozen of your men. Just to make sure the announcement of my betrothal will not summon ill guests. Now off you go. Do make sure to say nice things about me."

Torwen left Mirael's company with strict orders to make haste for the capital and, with her own men, took the longer road around the border. The further they strayed from the Green Road, the thicker the air grew and death and decay were brown and grey marks upon the Greenwood's once mighty brow. Even lessened and destroyed evil cast its dying breath upon the Woodland Realm.

With nightfall, the wraith like mists of the woods spread across the land and Torwen and company halted and camped under the trees. Torwen could not rest, but she dreamt. And feared.

_Have you ever seen, Lady, the mists above a lake deep in the forest green?_

* * *

 

It was the sound of broken wood and broken horns that woke Torwen from her stupor.

"Elves are in danger!"

They saddled up and rode hard beyond the tree line. "Fire, Lady, up ahead." But Torwen would not slow down. They sped through the oncoming wall of smoke and flame, their swords drawn like bolts of blue lighting in the night. Up ahead, trees had been uprooted and from behind their twisted branches, goblin mercenaries popped out, hissing and screeching. But the Elves on their steeds were border lords, christened in battle, with the Red Lady at the helm, and they left dark, murky blood and the corpses of the fallen in their wake.

"Halt!" Behind her, her dozen Elves lined up, bows ready. In front of her, the battled raged on. Retreating packs of orcs were not uncommon in these parts, but the filth carried beasts of war with them, made mad by the song of Elvish blades and the fire. Trapped in a ravine, the ambushed Elves were holding their own, but between the mindless giants, hurling around chains of heavy iron, and the goblins shooting poison arrows from the cover of the trees, they were at a disadvantage.

"Who among you here is the best shot?" Torwen demanded.

The voice that answered was young and feeble, but there was a hint of steel underneath it.

"You ride with me. The rest of you clear a path for us in the fray. We're going for those monsters."

The archer mounted Torwen's grey, the string of his bow strumming in Torwen's ears.

"I want your thickest shafts right in the big one's flank."

"The one with the chains?"

"The very one."

"That will not kill it, milady."

"Don't worry. _I_ will."

The mists cleared in Torwen's mind, as they always did in battle. The light of Elves and deeper shadows of the enemy blurred and dimmed, until all she could see was her mark.

"On my mark…"

The path was unfurling in front of her.

"Wait…"

The grey was the wind to carry her above the carnage.

"Wait…"

The path was cleared and Torwen flew.

"Now!"

A volley of arrows hailed Torwen's descent into battle.

At breakneck speed, Torwen's sword was a flash, nothing more, weaving in and around the battlefield, hacking, slashing, killing her way to the mark. The chains whirled above her head, as Torwen maneuvered the horse with nearly impossible turns. At her back, the young archer's arrows were hitting home, until the giant's flanks were a pincushion of Elvish shafts, but the tight dance they were doing around the beast was making it difficult for Torwen to take advantage of her charge's marksmanship.

"Take the reins!"

"What?!"

"Hold on!"

Torwen pulled the reins and as the horse reared, and the giant turned to crush them, she grabbed one of the shafts in its side and hoisted herself up. She grappled for another and another till the din of the battle below was nothing more than whistle of winds. Giant and Elf twirled gracelessly together, but with a final push, Torwen firmly planted her feet upon its greasy shoulders and drove her blade into its skull. Giving it a twist and gaining momentum, Torwen crashed the chain wielding monster into its equally monstrous kin, as a horde of orcs descended upon her.

With a mighty heave, she wrenched her sword free and would have dove at her assailants with a roar, had they not been whisked away by giant antlers and decapitated with a single flick of Thranduil's blade.

Dawn spilled red and gold upon the battlefield and with it the clear sounds of an Elf horn. All around her, the King's company was driving back the enemy as the King himself was a whirlwind of silver, raining death upon those who would come against him.

Not one to be undone, Torwen released her other sword and followed those who'd try to make a run for the woods. Their heads fell like dark hail upon the blood drenched ground. Within moments, victory was theirs. Still on her grey horse, the archer, a blonde, pale youth, trotted to her side.

"Lady…"

"TORWEN!"

The thunder of Thranduil's voice shook the clearing. He was circling around, a storm in his eyes, as he scouted the field for her. A nightmare she'd seemed to him, riding the foul beast, and when the two monsters clashed, he'd lost sight of her red hair and thought he'd almost lost his minds. Torwen was in the Clearing, or on the Green Road on her way to the capital, not in the middle of this accursed battle. But then, he saw her again, clear as the new day, facing a score of orcs and that was the precise moment all reason left him. He charged into the fray without thinking and no kill had ever felt as good.

When he saw her slowly advancing towards him, Thranduil felt something very dangerous arrest his heart. Her red hair was singed and her blades were drawn and bloody. He searched her eyes, battle pale and cold, and wished the world away so that he could take her and keep her and never let her go.

Torwen sheathed her swords and came closer, seemingly entranced by his mount. His battle elk was a thing of beauty, true, but surely it didn't warrant such attention. Carefully ducking out of reach of the massive antlers, Torwen came to his side and before Thranduil could utter a word, either in reprimand or in gladness, he wasn't quite sure, she laid her head against his thigh and tiredly whispered: "Let's go home."

* * *

 

"A patrol chanced upon the retreating host, remnants most likely from the great battle, half starved and mad with deprivation. We would have had them too if those great beasts hadn't fallen upon us," the captain of the ambushed elf company was reporting to his King. Thranduil would have carved his heart out, such was the anger festering inside him at the thought of Torwen in danger, of the sheer luck that he had been so near, out on a hunting party. But, beside him, Torwen was enjoying a late supper of _lembas_ and ginger marmalade, so he schooled his features into everything that was gracious, patient and forgiving.

"Spawn of Gundabad, most likely," Torwen remarked. "And evil does not travel alone. These borders of ours must be strengthened. I fear the shadow has moved on from the south."

"As the King commands."

Torwen smiled at the bristling captain and smeared more marmalade on her _lembas_ bread. "I'm sure he will. In fact, I'm going to leave you, so that he can do just that. I have my own men to tend to and there is an Elfling among them who is quite past his bedtime. If you'll excuse me, my lords."

As soon as Torwen took her _lembas_ out the tent, Thranduil loosened the reins on his anger and thundered away at his captain: "Twelve Elves and my betrothed saved your life and the lives of your men tonight! _Twelve_ Elves and one of them no better than a suckling babe!"

"My King, I did not know…"

"You did not know!" Thranduil hissed. "If it moves, lives and breathes on my lands, you know of it! And you tell me! Now be gone! Look to your men. And make sure you thank Lady Torwen for her assistance. It is on her account I feel inclined to show you mercy today. But there will be other tomorrows which may not bide favourably for you."

The captain made a hasty exit and still Thranduil could not find peace. This was Dagorlad all over again, the impossible reconciliation between the horrible realization that his best warrior was Torwen and his need to keep her safe. In his head he knew and trusted Torwen's battle prowess, but in his heart, the love he had for her was a vicious animal clawing at his tattered logic. He couldn't fathom a world without Torwen, without her resolute nature, her loyalty, the bright light of her spirit. He'd known it since the Havens. Torwen belonged. He couldn't let her go.

"Where is she?" Thranduil demanded of the skulking guard posted at the entrance to his tent.

"Heading for the stables, my King."

Thranduil followed.

She was talking to his elk.

"These are my apples, because I'm hungry. These are your apples, because I gave them to you. It's only fair. Now, don't you _moo_ at me or you'll be having no apples!"

He came upon her from behind and enveloped her in a tight, cloaked embrace. Her head fit right under his chin.

"Are we making friends, beloved?"

Torwen shivered slightly in his arms.

"How is it that you ride an elk in battle and I must contend with a mere horse?"

"But you do wonders with a horse. Or so I'm told."

"Well, yes, naturally. But still…"

"He is yours for the asking, my love," Thranduil smiled in her hair.

"I don't think he likes me, though."

Thranduil stilled at the sadness creeping into her voice. He had an inkling she was no longer talking about the elk.

"I like you. Is that not enough?"

"For the realm? Hardly."

Thranduil turned her into his arms and lifted her face to his. "I will tell you a secret, my precious Torwen. As a King who has learnt from Kings." Gently, he ran his fingers through her hair and cupped her delicate ears. "Men do not need to like you to follow you. But they need to follow you for you to be King. Your men followed you into the unknown tonight, without question or hesitation or pause. In a way, for them, you were their King."

He kissed her, softly touching their lips together. His great, big love, so strong and true.

"I have sent riders ahead," Thranduil said when he felt Torwen finally resting her head against his chest, " to let the realm know I bring with me a victorious Queen."

"Very accurate, that," Torwen said sleepily, her entire frame slowly relaxing as Thranduil spun his soothing magic around her.

"This victory comes at a cost, though. A terrible cost, in truth."

"Hmmm…"

"You will be a lonely Queen for a little while, as I make preparations for the day of our betrothal. I would have nothing spoil it. No border wars, no rampaging Torwens riding giant trolls. Just you and me and the beginning of our happiness together."

In his arms, Torwen nodded, slipping quietly into a land of peaceful, happy dreams.

* * *

 

"They do not like us," Mirael whispered while her Lady was dinning in the Elvenking's Halls.

"They do not know us," Torwen replied, sipping on a rather tasteless broth.

"We are not welcome here." There was a strange air of finality in Mirael's words that did not sit well with Torwen.

She put the spoon down and looked at Mirael. The young one looked proper and nice in her fine gown, her hair braided in a fanciful new style that Torwen found becoming. But her grave brown eyes shone with laughter and mischief no more. Torwen understood how one as tiny as Mirael might feel in these great underground Halls, especially when they were sat at a table alone for the second night in a row. In the Clearing, meals had been happy times, to jest and rejoice and catch up with the comings and goings of her small household under the oak.

As soon as they had passed the Elven Kingdom's Gates, Thranduil had been assaulted by his kingly duties and Torwen had scarcely seen him since. He wanted everything to be ready for the feast of their betrothal, but if that meant he'd work himself into obscurity, Torwen would have welcomed a few _rampant_ surprises instead.

Looking at the broth she had been brought, nourishing, but bland, and at Mirael's increasing skittishness, and at the lonely halls around her, Torwen marched into action. "You are right, they do not like us. Let's go."

Torwen picked up her plate, and rose with a screech of her chair. "Mira-child, if you'd be so kind. To the kitchens."

Mirael led the way, sprinting past the dazzled guards, down the steps, Torwen following carefully behind, in her long flowing robe, desperately trying not to trip. "This wardrobe is a menace! Who put all these stairs here? I don't recall having gone up this way earlier. And why are there so few lights? It is murkier here than my soup. You there!" Torwen addressed a solemn guard, "Fetch me a torch. I shall break my neck down these steps."

"He cannot answer, milady. He is carved of stone." Torwen stopped to peer intently and true enough, the guard was not just still as a statue, he _was_ a statue. "Extraordinary. Most lifelike," she marveled.

"Would milady want me to hold her plate?" Torwen was engrossed in feeling the details of the statue, the contours of the helmet, the scales of its armour. She gave it then a good knock and when she was satisfied that it would not knock back, she moved on. "No, no, I'm fine. How far are these kitchens of mine though? No wonder the food's cold. It'd probably be warmer if they shipped it from Valinor."

"Not long now, milady."

The royal kitchens were a far brighter and warmer affair than the rest of the Halls. There was the usual clinging and clanging of pots and pans, but there were also voices and snippets of song coming from within.

"Stand aside, Mirael."

Torwen straightened to her full height, gathered her robe around her and stepped in, holding the plate as an offering.

"Greetings, my fair folk. Dinner was lovely this evening. Any chance of dessert?"

It was increasingly hard for Torwen to keep a straight face at the shock and confusion her words were met with. Kitchen maids and off duty guards paused in their toils and a young elven-maiden kept pouring wine in an overflowing goblet at the sight of the Red Lady standing in their midst.

"Careful. That's going to stain," Torwen pointed at the rivulet of wine streaming down the table.

As if by magic, the Elves regrouped, the men standing at attention, the women bowing deeply, all of them pink faced and ashamed.

"Well, this is going marvelously," Torwen muttered under her breath. She was just about to dismiss them when something red and shiny caught her eye. "Ah. Apples!" And a basketful of them too, big, fat, juicy apples reddening near the fire. "Don't mind if I do." Torwen dropped the plate and picked an apple, taking a bite out of it with a satisfying crunch. All eyes in the room followed her closely. Around a mouthful of apple, Torwen entreated "Please, sit." The Elves stared back at her in bewilderment.

"Sit!"

As one, the Elves sat.

"Now, Mirael, bring that chair closer. I would have the names of those who have prepared such glorious food this evening."

Three apples and a pie later, Torwen was acquainted with all her kitchen staff, half the chamber maids, most of the stable guards and the first watch at the Gates as they rotated down for the night. More and more Elves came pouring down into the vast kitchens, to see their King's betrothed diving into her second pie of the evening and filling cups and goblets with wine and cider. She conversed freely with them, remembering names and faces and deeds with such ease that it astounded them. Hers was a fierce kind of beauty, not at all what they had imagined their Queen would be like. The fires cast a web of flame into her red hair, as the Lady moved around the place, toasting with one, jesting with another, learning of her people's happiness and sorrow. Her eyes were a brown so light, it appeared pale golden and her gaze was steadfast and true. She had a hearty laugh and the Elves felt merry around her.

"Now, you know these Halls better than I do," she said in her clear, strong voice that made her heard over the racket of Elves, "but, I swear, I crossed three kingdoms and a courtyard to get here. If I had descended lower, I would've surely ended it up in hobbit hole, on the other side of Middle-earth." The Elves laughed all around her. "There must be a lesser, _warmer,_ hall where I might have my meals. Preferably closer to the kitchens. Truthfully, I would much rather dine here, but I'm afraid that might insult your delicate sensibilities." There was a chorus of _noo_ s and Elvish huffs and puffs, until the Captain of the First Watch said: "Her Ladyship is to be Queen. Her Ladyship cannot eat in the shadows of the kitchen."

"So I'm to eat in the shadows of the Hall? That would displease me." Torwen paused dramatically. "Deeply."

"Perhaps the Small Council Room?" a brown-haired maid pipped in. Torwen cheered her on: "There's a good girl. Small! I like the sound of that." There was some debate among the Elves – _quite small, most unfitting, such dust_ – until the Captain proposed that her Ladyship see it with her own eyes and judge.

At Torwen's enthusiastic consent, lamps were produced and half the royal household led the Lady to the old part of the Halls, where King Oropher had held his court long ago. The Small Council Room was a favourite haunt of his, but it had not been used in quite some time, as the Halls had been expanded. "Oropher King moved to the upper halls long before the war. This is more of a…cupboard now," the Captain explained sheepishly, as he looked around at the many things that had been stored there over the years.

"A rather large cupboard," Torwen whispered in awe. The room was kingly, that much had to be said. Pillars hewn of living stone supported a starlit ceiling high above the blue patterned floors. "Are those gems? In the ceiling?"

"Aye. Our Old King was fond of…"

"Pretty shinning things?"

The Captain's face reddened perceptibly. There was silver twine wrapped around the pillars that cast a warm light when the braziers were lit.

"If my Lady wishes, I could have the hearth cleaned and a table brought here."

Other Elves were milling around the place, talking about replacing curtains and polishing the floors and maybe some flowers? Plans of dusting and airing were put forth and the kitchen maids were thinking of pulling out the old silverware for a change.

All of a sudden, Torwen felt a good sort of magic taking over the place. Not the great sort of magic, but the ordinary kind, that spoke of warmth and home and safety.

"Your Lady not only wishes it, she commands it. Make sure everything else is packed and stowed away. Carefully."

Behind her, Mirael was pulling on one of her long sleeves. "Yes, child."

"Milady, should not the King be told?"

Torwen's soaring spirits took a bit of a plunge.

"Ah, yes. Thranduil. Indeed." It occurred to Torwen that perhaps the King might not warm up to the changes she was instilling in a house that was not yet her own.

The Captain, catching the increasingly panicked look in her eyes, added softly. "I'm sure the King would not object to any of your wishes."

"I would not want to impose upon his sorrow, should this room bring forth bad memories of his Father's passing."

"There are no shadows of King Oropher here. Your light is too strong."

Torwen smiled warmly at the veteran Captain. "Still. Our King has ever accused me of disobedience. I shall prove him wrong - I will ask for his permission. Tonight, even. You can imagine his surprise. If you cannot, do not fret - I shall tell you all about it, continuously, over the next few days. I fear you will grow quite weary with me, Captain, and then I shall be sent back to those dreary Halls, enjoying lukewarm soup in utter solitude."

With that thought in mind, Torwen turned towards the exit. And paused.

"Captain."

"Yes, my Lady."

"Make sure everyone retires for the night. I would not have them be derelict in their duties on my account."

"As you command."

"Oh, and one more thing."

The Captain straightened and listened intently. Torwen's voice was everything sweet and innocent.

"You wouldn't happen to know…That is to say…Where exactly am I?"

* * *

 

Three maids escorted Torwen on her journey around the Halls. Since they were so much alike in figure and name, Torwen privately referred to them as the Head Maid, the Tall Maid and the Small Maid. Mirael would have probably been better able to distinguish them, but the little one had her eyes darting all over the place, trying to remember their way back around the labyrinthic steps of the Halls.

"And this will be our Queen's private chambers", the Head Maid opened heavily gilded doors with a flourish. The room was warm ambers and white sheets and Torwen hated it immediately. There was a narrow bed for her to rest in contemplation, a single silver cup and a single silver pitcher on a round table and several other amenities Torwen was certain she had no use for.

"Exquisite. Where does the King rest?"

Caught up in the excitement of a royal tour around the Halls, the three maids thought nothing of Torwen's odd request and nearly tripped over themselves in their haste to present the Royal Bower. Torwen followed solemnly, but Mirael was not fooled. "What if the King is in there?"

"The King," Torwen replied, "is deep at work, untangling matters of the realm. We shan't be disturbing him."

Thranduil's private chambers were practically bare in comparison with hers. But Thranduil's spirit dwelt in them nevertheless. From the silver coverlet to the gilded curtains and the neatly stacked wardrobe that occupied a separate space of its own with rows and rows of caftans, tunics, trousers, shirts, robes of gold, robes of silver, hunting boots, riding boots, velvet soft looking boots, summer crown, autumn crown, oddly shaped crown that Torwen had a hard time imagining how it would fit on Thranduil's head, small rings, big rings, bejeweled rings and sashes in all the colours of the forest, everything was touched by his mark. The air smelled like him too, a woodsy fresh scent, with a hint of mint.

Mirael and the maids had respectfully stayed behind as Torwen inspected the room, perhaps only now realizing how inappropriate all this must have looked to the casual passerby. But Torwen was undisturbed. She ran her fingers through his clothes, peered at his jewelry, moved a cup a bit to the left, pushed a chair to the right and even mussed up the bed linen, small things that were guaranteed to irritate him to no end.

Satisfied with her perusal and her improvements to the room, Torwen ushered her company out and dismissed them for the evening. "I thank you for your patience. I will go and see the King now, for I'm quite confident I finally know where I am. Have some tea sent to his study. It's going to be a long night."

The maids and Mirael bowed and Torwen went on her way, striding purposefully up the winding steps, where in the centre of his Halls, the Elven King of Greenwood was hard at work.

* * *

 

Thranduil despised paperwork, but did not trust anyone else to handle it. The many treaties and agreements with neighbouring Elves, Men and – Thranduil frowned – _Dwarves_ littered the desk concealed in the shadow of his great throne. Such was his distaste for the task that he uncharacteristically let the accursed letters and official documents pile up around him until he could suffer it no more and sacrificed hours of his precious rest and contemplation to reviewing, signing and settling the affairs of his Kingdom.

His agony was doubled now, because this tedious work was keeping him away from Torwen, his mighty Torwen, who had looked so lost upon her arrival. What few, precious moments he had spared for her had not been enough to assuage his fear that Torwen was beginning to feel overwhelmed and ill at ease in his home that he would share with her. The dreaded thought spurred him into renewing his efforts of putting everything in order before returning to Torwen's side.

He was thus deep in concentration, investigating the list of contents of his cellars, when he suddenly felt Torwen's small hands settling on his shoulders and an airy kiss gracing the crown of his head. "My King works so hard. Rests so little." Torwen brushed her fingers passed him as she sat down across from him. She wore a triumphant smile on her face, her eyes glittering like gold in the sunlight. In the half darkness of the room, Torwen's hair was a living, breathing thing, thick and red, slithering freely past her waist. Seated, Torwen's forelocks spilled on his desk like a river of blood.

"I thought you had retired for the night, my love." How easily the endearment came off his lips. It warmed cold, dark places in Thranduil's heart to have her so close, where the light of her being vanquished all shadows.

Torwen wrinkled her nose and picked up an official looking document from the pile closest to her. She frowned at it.

"I did retire for the night. I retired here."

Torwen had a stern look about her, when mirth and mischief did not light up her face. It did not please Thranduil to know that it was grief over the loss of her family and the hardships of war that had etched such a seal in her pretty face. As it were, he could almost see the writing on the parchment withering under her uncompromising gaze.

"Pray tell, what is this I'm looking at?"

"A trade agreement. Well a solicitation of sorts." Thranduil moved to take it from her, but Torwen snatched it from his reach.

"And you must answer this?"

"This and many more of its ilk," Thranduil ruefully admitted.

"I see. I shall assist you then."

Torwen took a blank piece of parchment and a spare quill and set to work, before Thranduil could protest. "Torwen, I appreciate the intent, but this is laborious work. How will you know what to say? Beloved mine, leave it…"

Torwen threw him a condescending look and waved the quill around, pointing at various piles. "Nonsense. You have done most of the work for me already. This small hill here is a resolute no, that one right there is a maybe and the handful of papers on your left would please Your Grace to answer favourably. I shall weather down the little mountain of _no_ , with all that is polite and gracious, while you continue what you've started. It's all very simple, really. I trust that if I apply myself to it, I shall be extremely proficient by the end of the night, so that, on the morrow, we may break our fast together. I hate eating alone."

Torwen had already started composing a reply, carefully rounding the letters, so that her writing would match Thranduil's flowing script. Thranduil merely looked at her for a few moments, taking in her focused face and the endearing picture she made, sitting there, ordering him around. Missing his company so much that she'd sit and write boring stately letters she had very little patience for. He found himself wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms and indulge in the constant, insatiable craving he had for her, her indomitable spirit and quick wit. But Torwen was a creature of the forest, beautiful and wild. She would fight, wound him and flee should he make the mistake of approaching her too suddenly. Thranduil would bide his time, basking in her closeness, reveling in her trust, until she was as trapped in the snares of his love as completely as he was enchanted by her. He was patient. He could wait.

* * *

 

They'd worked in companionable silence for a while, Torwen engrossed in her letter writing and pretending not to feel Thranduil's intense gaze boring into her skull, silently willing her not to start a diplomatic war. He was a bit high strung, her King was, and not one to easily release the reigns of power. But Torwen paid his anxiety no mind, and when the first batch of replies was finished, she casually draped the parchments on his side of the desk, for Thranduil to inspect and sign.

She busied herself with the tea Mirael had brought earlier, but out of the corner of her eye, she watched Thranduil carefully read every word, his fair face unguarded in his amazement. He had expected her to fail.

Thranduil signed his fancy signature on the rest of the letters, without checking them and Torwen thought she couldn't breathe past the warm feeling in her chest at seeing how pleased Thranduil looked with her work. When she had first found him in the shadows of his throne, he had looked a little weary, his face gaunt and his hair in disarray as if he had been pulling at it. He had endeared himself to her quite thoroughly, and now Torwen was struggling not to reach out to him, smooth his frown and comb his hair with her fingers.

_Do not be afraid to love him,_ master Glaewon had said before she left the Clearing. But how did one love a King? Torwen was not austere by nature. She longed to offer comfort and did not know how to go about it. Thranduil may have looked now boyishly charming, but he was so much older than she was. Torwen was unsure how he'd react were she to touch the way she felt she should. Elf Lords were not an overly physical bunch. She'd felt him stiffen and flinch when she'd gone to him earlier this evening, as if her touch had startled him, the ever unflappable Thranduil King.

Torwen narrowed her golden eyes in aggravation. When had the mighty Torwen become so skittish around Thranduil? She, who had deceived him, mocked him, done battle with him and generally ordered him around without remorse? She remembered her Mother's deferential attitude towards her Father, the crisp affection between them, the contemplative way they had loved each other and everything else. If that was love, Torwen wanted nothing of it. Love did not build walls around one's heart. Love was the force that destroyed them.

She knew Thranduil too had been alone for many an age. He liked doing things his way: writing his own letters, regularly inspecting his own cellars, picking his own berries for his crown, most likely, with a critic's eye for fashion. But he was learning to let someone in, even if it was just for the little things, like having her help with the paperwork. The thought gave Torwen hope and with that renewed vigour, she attacked the remaining stack of letters.

She was halfway through the first of the them when, trying to find the right phrase, she glanced up and was arrested by an unusual sight of Thranduil. He was looking over a list of sorts and he was so deep in his scrutiny, he had his lips pursed and he was biting the inside of his left cheek. Torwen nearly broke the quill in half with the effort not to laugh. He was even making small, displeased _tsking_ sounds, the dear Elf! Torwen leaned back in her chair and watched fascinated as he was worrying his lips, tapping his fingers and furrowing his brows in a scowl. More biting his cheeks, even a grunt of dissatisfaction. Torwen rose, but he didn't seem to notice. She grabbed the pitcher from a table nearby and filled him a cup of wine. His hand was halfway extended already as she came closer, but Torwen dangled the cup out of reach so that for a few silly moments Thranduil was simply grasping at air.

When he finally turned to look at the elusive cup, Thranduil was met with Torwen's glowing face, her eyes laughing and the corner of her lips tilted in a satisfied smirk. She raised a finger and poked him in the cheek. "Stop doing that. You'll bite a hole through it."

And then Thranduil saw red, as Torwen leaned it and placed a succession of three rapid kisses on his left cheek, the laugh bubbling out of her like a spring of sweet water. He caught hold of her, almost without thinking, and bent her over his lap, the cup, his letter and his work entirely forgotten. She was warm and vibrant in his arms, shaking with unrestrained laughter, a wondrously beautiful creature, gone all soft and yielding in his strong embrace.

"You should've seen the look on your face," Torwen chuckled, between deep restoring breaths.

"So, you're laughing at your King?" Thranduil feigned sobriety.

"When he's so serious…" She reached up and brushed her knuckles down his cheek, then up the side of his face to the tip of his left ear, where she lingered, before crooking her arm around his neck and drawing him in for her kiss.

Torwen opened her soul along with her lips and Thranduil was lost in her heat. Her kiss was long and thorough, her tongue searching and sweet. The world around them was silent but for the two of them sighing against each other's lips as they finally drew apart and the sound of Torwen's heavy silk gown scratching against his own as she ducked her head and nuzzled the bit of skin Thranduil always left uncovered at the base of his throat. She placed a kiss in the groove there and Thranduil whispered her name: "Torwen, my Torwen, you are sweet agony." He could feel her smiling against his skin. "And you were born to torment me with your flawlessness, my King."

She didn't feel very tormented as her lips traced a path to his other ear, breathing in his scent and taking a small bite out of his earlobe in a gesture so fleeting, he thought he might have imagined it. Viciously, he grabbed a handful of her hair, wounding it around his fist and using it to still her long enough for him to brand his own fiery kiss upon her lips, her eyes, the soft skin of her stubborn jaw. She kissed the tip of his nose in retaliation. That made him smile and then laugh and then look at her precious face and laugh a bit more.

"There, see? That wasn't so very hard, was it?"

Thranduil rested his forehead against hers and shook his head in resignation.

"What am I going to do with you, Torwen?"

"Marry me, love me, by all means, give me glorious children, so that I may despair at their beauty. Don't leave me alone. Something of that sort."

Thranduil snapped back at that and saw Torwen's eyes glazed over with a sheen of unshed tears.

"Such little faith you have in me?"

Torwen shifted in his embrace and Thranduil could sense something hardening in her again.

"I come to you with nothing, Thranduil, my King, but with blood and flame. You've seen it for yourself. It is my only gift. There is no starlight in me, no poetry, no verse but the song of my blades and fire of my temper. I fear… I fear for you. I feel for you. It is vexing, very vexing."

Thranduil kissed her hair gently and said:

"You come to me selflessly, my love. You are the only gift my heart desires. I wish you would not worry so. I wish you would take from me whatever it is that you need, for I would deny you nothing." Just as she had done before, Thranduil kissed her delicate pointy ear, whispering softly: "Nothing at all." Torwen giggled girlishly and her big golden eyes Thranduil had once thought so pale shone like molten gold. "You would not say that if you but knew what I wanted."

Thranduil groaned against her fragrant cheek, the love he felt for her flooding the dams in his heart.

"You horrible, lustful creature. Tell me all about it. I want to know…" he nipped at the tender flesh of her neck, "…everything…"

To hear her gasp like that, Thranduil would gladly give up ages of his immortal life.

"What? And think me less spiritual?" There was a catch to her voice, a breathlessness that stirred a deep yearning within Thranduil he was having a hard time to control. He nuzzled the side of her neck, feeling the thickness of her hair against his face and prayed he would survive his passion for her.

"We are both being a great deal less spiritual tonight, beautiful one," Thranduil sighed.

"Ah, then allow me to distract you with more worldly matters. For example, I have had the great pleasure tonight of rearranging your dinning halls."

Faced with such excitement, Thranduil managed a crooked smile and a resigned "Thank you."

"Your gratitude is misplaced, I assure you. I was practically forced into it by your well intended staff. You shall see. Oh, and I might have taken certain other liberties as well while you were otherwise preoccupied. By the by, I might mention that there is a particular sash in your possession that does not compliment your colouring at all and being the gracious being that I am, I mean to relieve you of it."

His Torwen was perched on his lap, gloriously mussed, her face flushed from his kisses, more intoxicating than any wine he owned and she thought herself gracious.

"Whatever would I do without you?"

"Dress poorly and eat cold food. Honestly, I'm beginning to see why you want to marry me so ardently."

Thranduil laughed and kissed her soundly. "Up," he then said, "all this talk has made me hungry. I would see these improvements you have bestowed upon my halls."

Torwen jumped to the occasion and gladdened his heart with the warmest smile yet. "Wonderful. You shall lead the way. I'm hopelessly lost around here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aargh, this is turning into a hopeless sequence of headcanons. I meant for there to be a narrative thread running through this chapter, but I fear it has run away from me. I posted it as such and hope you might still find it enjoyable.


	4. Chapter 4

_The light of love_

The year of Thranduil King and Torwen's betrothal started predictably enough with a fight and a separation.

"You are being unreasonable!" Torwen argued. "I cannot and will not abandon my duties in the Clearing just because you cannot spare me!"

But Thranduil would not hear of it. "The Marchwarden is more than apt to handle whatever might endanger the Clearing."

"The Marchwarden..." Torwen scoffed. "What of my house? I will not sit here idly, while my people stand almost defenceless against this creeping shadow. Mirael's wedding day is fast approaching as well. There are preparations to be made that suffer no delay! I made them a promise that I would oversee the process and…"

Thranduil turned then with an almost imperceptible swish of his clothes and gave her a sideways glance. Torwen resented him mightily whenever he did that, looking at her from the top of his prodigious height, every word, inflection and movement as calculated and cold as the dimming and rising of the stars. "How unfortunate for them that you are also bound to deal with wedding preparations _here_. In the capital. Still, I admire your loyalty. Now, would you care for some wine?"

It was when he turned his back at her that something in Torwen's heart went very quiet and cold.

"I do not want your damn wine! I want leave to go!" she hissed.

"And _I_ want you _here_!"

The glass shattered in a million tiny pieces of silence and Thranduil could see his anger reflected in each of them as they clattered to the floor. It had been a long, long time since Thranduil had let his temper get the best of him. The jagged sound of his own raised voice seemed somehow foreign to his ears, but the old demon of rage began to tug at the chains of its imprisonment.

As the great Elvenking's Halls, so spacious and airy, suddenly seemed to close down on them, Thranduil put down the carafe, brushed his hand of what was left of the ill-fated glass and, with whatever tattered self-control he still possessed, looked at Torwen.

She could have well been a statue, with eyes painted gold and her hair a heavy red veil of silk, but for her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. There was no love in her that he could see, no warm light that brightened his home, no fire that set his blood to boil. She wore no embellishments, save for the silver and gold trimming of her coat and Thranduil realized she had dressed for the journey to the Clearing. Rage, pure and unadulterated, gripped his heart and left him blind to everything save her crass disobedience, but Torwen moved, her echoing steps drawing her closer to him.

She looked at him as if he were the enemy.

"What of what I want? Tell me, oh, great one who would deny me nothing…" Torwen spat back his words at him. "It's easy to make promises, Thranduil, is it not, when they are as hollow as your halls! I do not know what selfish little whim is spurring on this tantrum of yours, but I will not suffer it. I am leaving for the Clearing. When you decide to put your foolishness aside, you may find me there."

"Do you imagine I will come begging like a dog at your door?" Thranduil's words were deceptively calm, but the chill they instilled phased Torwen none: "Do _you_ imagine I will tuck my tail between my legs and obey a childish order?"

"Yes!" Never in his long life had Thranduil had to argue his will against one of his kind, of his house, _in_ his house. The anger again came swiftly – too swiftly - and broke the mask of calm Thranduil had schooled his features in. "I am your King! You owe me loyalty! You owe me obedience!"

But anger also rode hot on Torwen's heels. And it was instinct, a deep dark instinct that lingered even in the shadows of a glowing Elvish heart, not truth, that prompted Torwen to strike back. "I owe you nothing!"

The halls were quiet, even though their spirits were crackling with power and frustration and deep hurt. And as the silence lengthened and their hearts stilled, a wall of coldness and feigned indifference fell in place and Thranduil tightly commanded: "Be gone then."

And Torwen was gone.

* * *

 

"That was badly done. Very badly done."

_That_ was all master Glaewon had been saying ever since Torwen marched into the Clearing, grim faced and ready to do battle with anyone foolish enough to look at her the wrong way.

"I do not believe I asked for your opinion."

Torwen busied herself with choosing the right fabric for Mirael's wedding dress, something light and spring-like, perhaps a gentle, airy green…

"The realm is ablaze with news of Thranduil's betrothed storming out of the halls, without so much as a by your leave…"

…perhaps something to soften Mirael's dark colouring, made now even harsher by the scowl on her pretty face…

"…without a royal escort, like a common…"

…a scowl she had worn ever since they'd left the halls in a hurry.

"It was a mere matter of haste, Glaewon. No need to tax your nerves over silly nothings."

The silk she'd chosen was a bit on the heavy side, but it had a pleasant sheen to it…

"Nothings? Torwen, you were nearly banished from the court!"

Torwen rounded on him, a wildness in her eyes: "I was not…"

_Be gone then._

"…banished! I left of my own volition!"

"Ah, yes, that you did. Torwen the Unbroken does not live by anyone's leave, does she? No one may instruct Torwen the All Knowing on what to do with her life and the lives of all around her, as if we were mere subjects, children who need to be told when to speak, when to marry and what we should bloody well wear!" Glaewon roared.

"Leave!"

"No, I will most definitely not. I am not you!"

"Leave now!" Torwen did not know how it happened, but the shortest of her leaf blades was pressing into Glaewon's skin. He did not budge.

"Because it's easier that way, isn't it? If you cut us off, you will be spared the pain of us making that decision on our own. Everyone leaves Torwen. Wouldn't it be better if Torwen made them go away first? Isn't that what you thought? Why wait for Thranduil to come to his senses and see your many faults when you could simply parade them for the entire realm to see and corner him into an order that would only bring the both of you pain?"

The hand on the blade shook violently and it scared Torwen – she'd always had such steady hands in battle. Nothing in her quacked, nothing in her quailed. Nothing in her ever trembled as she did now, holding a live blade to the throat of someone she loved.

"Heavens forbid you should relinquish control, Torwen. That unsheathed blade is sharp. Just like you. Always out for blood."

Torwen threw the blade away and closed her eyes to the world, to her broken heart and the guilt that festered in its pieces.

"I told him… I just wanted… I would've come back…"

Glaewon gently placed his hands on her shoulders. He had known her since she had first opened her huge golden eyes to the light of the Eldar and, in all his life, he had loved no one more. He could barely now remember his lost lady love, the one he had hoped to marry and father children with. She was a distant memory, like Doriath of old, cast to the shadows at the edges of the bright light of Torwen's soul.

"You told him, yes, but what did he hear? He heard the one he loves begging to leave. He heard the woman he means to take as wife and queen place more importance on the happiness of ones who are strangers to him and his great love for you. He feels alone in his love and that is not a feeling anyone, especially Thranduil King, can shoulder easily."

"Because he is proud…" Torwen whispered, laying her forehead against master Glaewon's chest, suddenly weary and lost.

"Because he is in love, you precious little fool. In love with someone even prouder than himself. You meant to hurt him."

Torwen shivered. "I meant for him to listen to me. To see _me_. Not some…spawn of his affection. A creature to comfort his…magnificence."

Glaewon wanted to, but could not help but laugh at that. "You do not trust his _affection_ then?"

Something in Torwen wanted to say _No_ , to shout it across the Clearing, and up into the sky, but she knew it was a lie. Thranduil loved her, she knew. Or had loved her, before this ordeal had taken place. Now she was not so sure. And the doubt hurt and cut more deeply than she had ever imagined. On her way to the Clearing, she could not have cared less if he'd followed her on bended knee. But many – far too many – days later, with no word from the capital besides the whispers and wondering stares and too long silences, the pain of longing and a staggering amount of guilt were driving Torwen out of her mind.

She had not meant to say what she did. She owed Thranduil everything, loyalty and obedience above all. There was no malice in him when he had denied her her wanting to leave. He was looking out for her, for Thranduil was well aware of Torwen's reckless nature. Had she insisted on an escort, he would have gladly obliged her, but instead she'd scorned his worry and wounded his authority, his pride and his love. He would not forgive easily. Or ever.

_Be gone then._

She could not forget the look in his eyes when he'd said that. As if she were something…disgusting, not worthy to appear before him – a lowly thing.

"He will not come. He will not see me. I am as good as banished, only a thousand times worse."

Glaewon tipped her resigned face towards his. "Perhaps he is thinking the same thing. She will not come. She will not see me. Or worse – she does not love me. So, tell me, Torwen, whose pain is greater? At least you have some knowledge of his enduring affection."

Torwen swallowed hard past the lump in her throat and her eyes misted over. She looked so small, his fierce Torwen, so fragile and frightened, Glaewon could only draw her to his chest, his lovely, lovely child, and offer what reassurance he could.

"Do not fret so, my dear. Lovers love to be crossed – it makes for a sweeter reunion. Now, let us wipe those big, fat tears before they ruin my tunic and find Mirael something fabulous to wear. I believe she had her heart set on this here fabric…"

Torwen smiled a little teary smile, but followed Glaewon's lead nonetheless. The fabric was really pretty and for a moment her heart felt a little lighter. On her left hand there was a promise - the silver ring Thranduil had put on her finger the day of their betrothal. Even if he meant only to break that promise, Torwen reasoned, Thranduil would come and see her one last time.

* * *

 

Thranduil King prided himself on his patience. For ages, he had fought against his more basic urges – like the rage that had consumed him as a young warrior elf, the lust he had for life and beauty, the desire to be pleased in all he might endeavour – until he had achieved such a stillness of mind and spirit that it took momentous events to rattle him. He had weathered the storms of this Middle-earth with resilience and not a small amount of sheer stubbornness. That alone had gained him a mythical aura among the Fair Folk and the many other people of the world.

Because of his height and build, he'd accomplished through bare physical intimidation what a wealth of curses could never have gained him. Thranduil's passions ran deep, true, but the evil times he had lived had also instilled in him a sort of coldness that insulated him from the feelings of others and always helped him turn the tide of many an unavoidable argument in his favour.

But when he now thought back to Torwen's eyes, so wide, and gold and cold and, for the merest of moments, pained, when he'd ordered her gone, he was suddenly aware of how easily the fire of his temper could spring to devastating life and ruin what he had worked so hard at building.

He'd hurt her. He'd forgotten, in the heat of his own wounded pride, how fragile Torwen actually was. Even a cornered animal would strike back and he'd done his damndest to box her in, so sure he had felt of his sway on her. But Torwen was his equal, in station, strength and pride. But not in love, Thranduil feared. Torwen freely shared her affections with the people she drew to her like flowers craving sunlight. But the fountain of her true love was shut still.

Thranduil was not so blinded as not to see that there was a shadow in Torwen's heart, a fear of rejection, of loneliness. And he'd not only rejected her wishes, he'd cast her away. He'd regretted it, but not, to his eternal shame, immediately. Out of spite, he had watched her from the shadows, before her _hasty_ departure, astride her horse, fidgeting on the spot, looking unsure, perhaps waiting for him to call her back, before that hard, uncompromising look settled on her features and she stormed out of the halls, on the Green Road. He would not have called out to her for all the treasures, power or wisdom in the world, even though his heart was bleeding with love for her.

Just the memory of her long red hair disappearing into the gloaming made Thranduil restless and he twiddled with the plain gold ring on his left hand. For days, he'd debated whether he'd wear it again, but he couldn't bear to take it off. He'd tried to mask it with one of his more ornate pieces, but the little gold band winked at him like an errant sun ray through the foliage.

_Be gone then._

And she was gone. Not a word had come from the Clearing, besides a short missive in Glaewon's straight bold script, informing the King of Torwen's safe arrival. The young archer who'd delivered it had asked if the King would like to send a message back, but Thranduil had taken a good look at his accusing eyes and he'd dismissed the insolent little wretch on the spot. This was Torwen's creature, as were all the Elves in the Clearing. Their Red Lady...

...his Red Queen. But oh, how fiercely he missed her. He missed her commanding presence, the way she charmed her way into the hearts of his people, her constant mockery of everything that displeased her, the brazenness with which she appropriated his sashes, his robes and on one memorable occasion, one of his more tight fitting tunics. They had been doing so well together. Torwen came to him willingly, basking in his adoration like a wild cat in the warmth in the sun. There had been nights when she'd cozied up to him, in his study, mercilessly distracting him with her small, needy body nestled in his arms.

But everything was a struggle with Torwen. He'd feel her tense up at times, trying to tell him something, wanting, but not knowing how to ask. Feeling, but not knowing how to show it. And Torwen did not take well to inability of any kind on her part. She was severe on herself, Thranduil knew, despite her claims to superiority. The King had an inkling that the lack of response from the Clearing was some sort of self-imposed punishment Torwen was inflicting upon herself. She had done it before, when she'd abandoned the capital, despite his express wishes that the Last Princess of Doriath have a permanent place in court, and moved on to build the little community in the Clearing, away from him and the safety of the Elvenking's power. No, she had chosen the perilous life of the border lords, toiling alongside the ones who were not her equals by any stretch of imagination. Thranduil both loved and hated that about her - that she could leave him so easily, yet suffer so greatly because of it.

"My Lord, we are nearly done with securing the west fold and now…"

Lord Calaron had been droning on about something or another for hours, but Thranduil had given up listening to his incessant haranguing. It seemed the less stellar traits of the steward's character had surfaced with Torwen's departure alongside a long forgotten sister he wanted to introduce at court. The maiden was dull as she was tall and Torwen would have had the time of her life with her, but since she was not here, Thranduil had to contend with entertaining a creature so lacking in taste it was positively criminal.

"Lord Calaron," Thranduil rose from his seat, "in truth the west folds have always been rather secure, so let's not waste our breaths about that. If I'm not mistaken," and the King gave a pointed look that told Lord Calaron that, indeed, he was never mistaken, "the time has been in keeping with us. I would entertain a hunt. Give some of our new batch of archers something more interesting to aim at. That would please Master Bowman as well, I should think." His Captain of the First Watch had been insufferable of late and not even the archers he so assiduously and passionately trained could deliver him of his vile mood. Thranduil knew the reason for that and sympathised. He himself was plagued by the same illness. And it was an illness only Torwen could cure.

Thranduil looked at his betrothal ring again and felt his heart shatter. The simple truth he had struggled with in Torwen's absence was that Thranduil wanted her no matter what. If she only gave him her loyalty for the rest of time, with no hope or hint of love, Thranduil would take it with two greedy hands. The many days of their separation had sealed that fate for him. He would want her for eternity and beyond. Should Torwen choose the Clearing, choose freedom, choose to be relieved of her promise, he would obey her. Should she choose to one day marry another, he would please her. He would give her the world and ask for nothing in return but to be allowed to be in her presence and live off morsels of her magic and light.

But he had to know. He had to know her heart and what feelings were hidden in there. He needed to know the truth, not words spoken in anger. He needed to hear it from her – what she wanted, what she would have of him, from Thranduil, not from the King. He _needed_ to see her.

"Where would it please My Lord to hunt?" Calaron asked cautiously, as he felt the shift in the King's mood.

"The Clearing," came Thranduil's too swift reply. Then, checking himself in the presence of his underling, his voice dropped and, bowing his head in a slight gesture of dismissal, he said: "Just North of the Clearing."

Torwen's time was up.

* * *

 

The wedding in the Clearing was one of the happiest memories in Torwen's life and in the lives of many Elves that would come to remember the sunnier days in the Greenwood Great. Eldir had been dashing in his robe of green and gold and Mirael resplendent in her shimmering white gown with wild flowers Torwen herself had woven in her hair. The Marchwarden had offered a feast to put all royal banquets to shame and Lirael had starlight shinning in her eyes to rival the gems in Elwen's hair.

But Torwen, dressed in red and gold, wearing the ancient crown of her house, had looked beautiful and fierce. Some may have commented on the tarnished silver of the heavy circlet holding back Torwen's blood red hair, but none could unsee the sparkling ring on her left hand. She may or may not have had the blood of kings, but she held the heart of one.

Torwen herself felt in better spirits. Mirael's happiness and the good strong magic of the Elves of the Clearing had brought back the light in Torwen's eyes. She'd even sung for the newlyweds and what heart she had that was not with Thranduil she poured in her songs.

But as night crept in, and the revels began to dwindle, even though the Marchwarden and master Glaewon were still toasting to the glory of the Greenwood Great, and Mirael and Eldir had made themselves scarce, Torwen suddenly felt very lonely. Elwen and Lirael had been great company throughout the evening, but even they eventually ran out of ways to entertain Torwen's delicate temper.

In the Halls, Torwen had never lacked entertainment. She'd been a frequent visitor to the kitchens, the stables, Thranduil's empty rooms. She'd made a shadow out of the Captain of the First Watch, who dogged her steps and waited on her every command. She'd even, very carefully and away from the King's eyes, trained with the archers. She was sufficiently proficient with a bow and arrow, partial as she was to her leaf blades, but she felt the extra training wouldn't hurt and the Captain was an excellent Master Bowman.

In truth, Torwen may have felt lonely at times when Thranduil was immersed in his kingly duties, but she'd never been truly alone. Surprisingly, life in the Clearing had moved on without her, so much so that Torwen felt out of place, even in the house under the tree. It was a disquieting thought.

"My Father will keep at it till morning, but he is safe with master Glaewon, I should think", Lirael smiled at Torwen.

"I think the bottom of that Dorwinion wine bottle will beat the dawn in its haste to make an appearance."

Lirael's laughter was as joyous as a sparkling spring. Such beauty, Torwen thought. Such grace.

Lirael looked at Torwen with happy eyes and smiled again. She did that often these days, as she frequently sought out Torwen's company.

"You bring happiness with you wherever you go, Torwen the Unbroken, and leave only desolation in your wake."

"You seem to have done well without me", Torwen said and then, reconsidering, apologised, "Forgive me. That was terribly rude. I did not mean to say..."

"No, no, I understand your meaning. But what I meant is that your happiness is our happiness, wherever you are. Because you are dear to us. I wish you wouldn't forget that quite so often."

Despite herself, Torwen grinned. "Bravo, Lira-child! That was the most starkly unforgiving thing you have ever produced!"

Lirael blushed a little, but quickly gained her composure: "Someone has got to stand up to you. And since master Glaewon is momentarily incapacitated..." With a pointed glance towards Glaewon's sleeping head nestled among empty cups of wine, Lirael continued, "... I took it upon myself to lecture you."

Torwen laughed in earnest then: "So you're taking turns, I see. I shall consider myself properly chastised" and she bowed her head.

Lirael touched her hand to Torwen's. "You are so full of love. Never forget that."

"How is it", Torwen asked, a bit miffed, "that everybody knows so much about love and only I am left ignorant?"

Lirael shrugged. "We stopped and listened, I suppose. To our hearts, to the hearts of the people around us. My Father would have greatly wanted to make a queen out of me. And I confess I have also had this desire. But when I first gazed upon Thranduil King and touched his hand, his soul spoke to mine. It spoke of fullness and the chambers in his heart filled with a longing that I could not fulfill. Whenever I looked at him, I felt the same thing I do when I am in your presence. I cannot explain it. You have the same magic. Perhaps", Lirael faltered, "perhaps because he is so full of _you._ His thoughts, his heart, his entire being. You are one, forever, in the light of Eru."

Torwen could hardly breathe past the ache in her chest, so deeply affected was she by Lirael's honest words. In a burst of light, the path cleared before her. Like in all the battles of her life, Torwen knew exactly what had to be done. If Thranduil wished it still for it to happen, Torwen would brave the fire and make it so.

* * *

 

Thranduil never did anything if it did not require an insane amount of style. The camp he set for his hunting party could, at its barest, be described as lavish. It was annoyingly charming, Torwen had to admit. She'd been lurking at its edges for a couple of days, ever since she'd almost decapitated Master Bowman, who'd ventured a little too close to Torwen's usual haunts. He was the one to inform her that the King had ordered a hunt and was camping near the Clearing.

But not near enough, Torwen thought. She had caught glimpses of Thranduil here and there, as he entertained Calaron and a tall, wilting flower she had no recollection of, but who bore a striking resemblance to the Lord Steward. The King had looked his usual radiant self, but did he have to wear that robe that complimented his stature so wonderfully? And the cut of his tunic at the base of his throat was strikingly indecent and served only to fluster the poor maiden whose inept giggles sometimes marred the peacefulness of the Elven camp. Torwen might have forgiven her poorly veiled attempts at impressing the King had she been a tad smaller. But seeing the two of them together, the tall, fair King and the equally fair and tall maiden, made Torwen want to ravage an entire battalion of orcs.

She had given much thought to how she would introduce herself to the King. Torwen was not vainglorious, but she was stubborn. Thranduil would not be fooled by her attempted humility, even if Torwen was truly sorry. Knowing him, he would probably refuse to see her alone and would grant her an audience only in the presence of Calaron and his detested kin. And that Torwen would not suffer. Never, she vowed.

But there had to be a way to ascertain Thranduil's mood towards receiving her. She had come up with a plan and had spent the best part of the day preparing for it. Her hands were dirty and her tunic and breeches a mess, but the treasure she had dug out from the earth was well worth it. Clutching the small parcel to her chest, she was waiting for Thranduil to leave his tent and ride out, but as was his custom, he tarried quite a while. Torwen smiled. He always took so long to get himself ready, as if he wasn't aware that whatever he put on would look magnificent.

At last, the Elvenking exited his tent, looking impeccable in a dramatic black and red hunting garb, and Torwen forgot how to breathe. Longing, fierce and unyielding, coursed through her body and the need to touch him was a visceral nightmare. Beyond her control, her body leaned forward, her steps drawing her to him as if pulled by an invisible string, before she caught herself and remembered her plan. She also sobered when the Calaron look-alike sauntered next to the King and he smiled charmingly at her. Torwen almost lost it when the impertinent wretch had the gall of looking spooked by Middle-earth's most docile horse and Thranduil had to graciously assist her when she mounted. Torwen would have probably cut off his hands if he had ever even hinted at the possibility that the Unbroken One would have problems mounting and riding any steed, let alone having him hold her hand as she settled in her saddle.

Once they were finally off and Torwen managed to dislodge her dagger from where she had pummeled it in the bark of the tree she was hiding behind, she straightened up and marched into camp, till she reached Thranduil's tent. The guards posted at the entrance took one look at her blazing eyes and scurried to the sides in a less than fluid motion. Later, they would swear they'd heard the Red Lady growl menacingly under her breath.

Inside the tent, Torwen's foul disposition dissipated under the spell of Thranduil's lingering magic. She'd missed his scent. She'd missed dozing off in his arms when he was working and she was lonely. She'd missed waking up to the rhythm of his strong heart beat. They'd been so long apart his scent had worn off from her clothes and she could only bring forth the ghost of his hungry kisses. They'd decided early on that their courtship would always border on inappropriacy and they had both done their best to push the boundaries of a respectful royal betrothal. Up until the moment they quarreled and she left.

With that sobering thought in mind, Torwen went to a nearby table and laid her precious gift upon it. He would know whence it came. She had unearthed the roots he loved eating, cleaned them, peeled them and was now offering them to him. He would know. And once he did, he would come.

* * *

 

It was dark by the time Thranduil returned with his party, but not nearly dark enough to match his mood. He played at being gracious, he played at being an honourable host, but one more moment in the company of his devout courtiers and he would soon become a king without a court. He almost jumped from his elk and purposefully strode to his tent with a careless " _Pray excuse me_ " tossed to Calaron and his lady sister, who had moved to follow him before thinking better of it. Thranduil stormed past the guards, who, by now, no longer needed to be told that no one, save a certain woodland sprite, might be allowed to bother the King.

In the privacy of his own surroundings, Thranduil shut his eyes and groaned. He had to see Torwen or he'd turn into a kinslayer. So tantalisingly close to the Clearing, Torwen's magic was preying at the edges of his mind. He could pick up her scent on the wind and feel her presence all around him. Even his tent seemed to be infused with the…

Thranduil froze. On the table nearest to his seat, peeled roots were silently vying for his attention. They were his favourite. Only Torwen, who had followed him in Dagorlad, knew that. She'd mocked him on his culinary tastes enough times for him to know only she could have brought them. Which meant she was here. She had been here. In his tent, probably standing where he stood now. That thought alone was enough to make Thranduil light-headed. He ached to see her. And dreaded it still. Was this a peace offering? Or a token of a deeper affection? Would she ruin him? Or make him whole again?

Grabbing his black and silver cloak, he vanished into the shadowed realm of the forest. Torwen would not be far. He knew her ways. She'd be waiting somewhere close, keeping her hands busy with one thing or another, like building a fire that would never be lit, or sharpening an arrow that would never take flight, wondering and worrying.

And true enough, he found her huddled next to a tree, peeling roots with her dagger. Her brows were furrowed and her wild hair was a mess and Thranduil loved her so much he thought he might die if he never got to have her.

"You are ruining a perfectly good root."

Torwen started and the sharp dagger bit into her finger. Thranduil could see the blood beading, but Torwen hid the injury behind her back and bowed low. "My King."

_My Torwen,_ Thranduil wanted to say. _My love, my beautiful one, my dear, precious darling. Light of my life, soul of my soul._

But he said none of those things, for what was a King without his pride?

"Why do you linger in the shadows, Torwen the Unbroken, stealing away like a thief in the night? You are a Princess of Doriath, not a common woodland elf."

Torwen looked up and her eyes were tiny, shimmering suns. She looked gaunt and pale and sad. Thranduil drew on the strength of all his long, lonely years to resist and keep himself firm and resolute, for he was that close to throwing everything away and _beg, beg_ for her forgiveness.

"I…" Torwen started, still on bended knee, "I… did not know if I was still welcome in the court of King Thranduil."

She tried to hide it, but Thranduil caught her eyes searching his fingers, locking on the pale gold band.

She swallowed hard.

He extended his hand: "Is this what you came looking for? You may take it…" Thranduil forced the word out "… _back_ if you wish it. You need only say it."

Torwen looked stricken and the words came tumbling out "No, no, no…" before she got on her feet, took a deep breath and very slowly said: "No. It is not in my intention to…take back…anything I offered in good faith."

Ever the soldier, Torwen braced herself and standing straight and looking him in the eyes, her hands still clasped at her back, her head held high, declared: "I would, however, take back words I have spoken in anger. I was wrong to disobey you. I was wrong to deny you your right to… to command me to stay in the Halls. You are my King. You have my allegiance. Always." Torwen paused. "You have the right to demand… you have the right to… ask…" She paused again. And then, her hand shot out, shaking like a leaf in the wind, his silver ring a lost little piece of starlight caught on her palm. "I have dishonoured you. You have the right to ask for this back."

"And what would you say, Torwen, if I asked for my ring back?" Since she started talking, Thranduil had died a thousand deaths. But nothing compared to the agony of waiting for this one answer.

Torwen looked at the silver ring in her hand and then at the silver Elf in front of her.

"I am not worthy of you."

Thranduil blanched. Death could not have been crueler.

"But… there is a part of me…the best part of me, for whatever that is worth…that wishes you never ask me that question… that wishes this had never happened… that, very selfishly, wants you to… to love me again."

Thranduil closed the distance between them and wrapped her extended hand in his fist. It was the only point of contact between them, but he did not trust himself to give more. Not yet.

"I have never stopped. My love is yours. Always. But I cannot live like this, Torwen. My heart knows it. I swear it does. But I need to hear it from you. Say you love me. Or say you don't. But do not feed me morsels of gratitude. Know that I would welcome even those greedily – there, you have the weapon of my undoing. But say you love me. That's all I need. Say you love me and no quarrel, no separation, no power in Eru's great world will ever come between us."

Torwen clasped their hands with her bloody one.

"How will you believe me? How will you ever trust me again?"

"I will know. You have deceived me before and still I saw the truth. I will know now."

Torwen kissed his clenched fist and whispered: " _I_ … _I lov_.."

He kissed her. Drawing her startled body into his arms, he kissed her. Ravenously, punishingly, achingly sweet and terribly hard. He kissed her again and again until he was drunk on the feel of her. And then he started all over. He kissed her slow, he kissed her hard. He kissed his name off her lips a thousand times before he finally stopped.

"Forgive me."

"Thranduil…"

"Shhh…Forgive me, my love. I know you do. I know."

"But…"

Thranduil cupped her dear face in his hands. "I was wrong. I cannot order you to do this. You will say it when you are ready. And I will treasure it more for it."

"But why? Why are you so kind?" Torwen wailed.

"I am not kind, beloved. Far from it. I have been cruel to you. You are my Torwen and I have not given you much choice. I will not reduce our love to conditions."

Gently, he placed the ring on her finger once more and whispered a soft kiss over her injured hand. "This ring lives here. As I live in your heart. And you in mine. I do not need words. I need you."

"But you do have me. You do. All of me."

Thranduil bent to kiss her again, atoning for his earlier roughness, peppering a wealth of kisses on her face, allowing her to wrap her arms around his neck and bury her pretty little nose in the side of his neck. He wasn't surprised, nor disappointed when Torwen's own wildness surfaced and she nipped at his skin, laving the marks she left in the wake of her greedy mouth with her nimble tongue. He wasn't idle either, lifting her up against him, until she was level with his face and he could see the devilish glint in her no longer pale eyes. He took her mouth again, slowly, leisurely, reveling in the way she opened up to him. The moment Torwen hoisted herself up, wrapping her legs around his waist, her hands running wildly through his hair until she had his head trapped in her grasp, Thranduil knew he would have to put an end to this soon, or he'd make her his on the woodland floor. Or quite possibly against the nearest tree. All of which were highly unelvish and, more importantly, terribly bad for his sanity. He grazed her lower lip and sharply bit until she gasped. Using only one hand to hold her up, he cupped her face with the other, gently tracing her puffy, pink lips with his thumb. Unrepentantly, Torwen drew his finger in her mouth, wetting it with the tip of her tongue.

Thranduil laughed and regretfully stilled her long enough to whisper roughly in her ear: "Beloved mine, how will I survive you?"

Locked in his tight embrace, Torwen closed her eyes and burrowed her face into his hair. She was dimly aware that this was not behaviour becoming of a Princess of Doriath or a future Queen, for that matter, but she couldn't help herself. She had been so long without him…

Torwen could feel his hands moving soothingly up and down her back, probably trying to disengage himself from her vise like grip and regain some semblance of propriety. All of a sudden, she was too aware of the fact that this was Thranduil King she was taking liberties with and she moved to disentangle herself from him. Thranduil allowed her to slither down his tall frame, but would not release her yet. She was too adorable, her cheeks on fire and her lips swollen from his kisses. She wouldn't even look at him. Torwen was rarely stricken with bouts of shyness, but when she did, she looked like a child about to be scolded. Endearing as it was, Thranduil did not care much for it – he suspected Torwen had been scolded for a large part of her childhood. Bowing his head to her lowered one, Thranduil softly whispered: "Don't. Never be ashamed of your passion for me. The fire you feel now burns in my blood too. I love you. I want you. As a man wants a woman. There is no shame in that, beloved."

Torwen looked crossed with herself.

"This is not passion. This is…"

"Lust", Thranduil answered for her. He kissed the top of her head, buried his hands in her glorious hair and turned her scowling face towards his: "Sweetling, look at me. I started this and it pains me that I cannot finish it. Though, precious heart of mine, there is nothing I want more."

With a growl of frustration, Torwen lounged for his mouth, but Thranduil smilingly kept back. He kissed her temple in return, once, twice and, just because she was that intoxicating, stole a fleeting kiss off her lips. "Soon, beloved. Soon, I will give us both sweet relief. Not on a cold, woodland floor, but in our marriage bed. And then, I'll make our bodies sing, I promise."

Torwen hummed in response, her forehead pressed into his chest, her hands clutching at his sides. "I will hold you to that promise, Thranduil King."

Satisfied with the strength slowly returning to her voice, Thranduil finally released her.

"Torwen of the Clearing, scurry off home now. It would please your King to visit you on the morrow. Do make sure everything is in readiness for his arrival."

As he turned to take his leave, he found himself boldly questioned by Torwen: "Will my King be travelling alone…or accompanied?"

Intrigued, Thranduil stalled: "I have my retinue with me."  
"Lord Calaron and his…wife?"

The corner of his mouth twitched with the effort to suppress a supremely ingratiated smirk, but the sudden murderous look in Torwen's eyes was too beautiful a thing to pass up. "His lady sister. Lord Calaron is unmarried, as you well know, Torwen."

"And does this lady sister not have a family she may wish to visit? A husband who misses her , perhaps?"

"Not that I know of. And I'm quite certain she's…unattached." It was fortunate Thranduil had put some distance between them, for Torwen looked quite ready to fell him.

"Well, in that case," Torwen bristled, "she can be unattached somewhere else!"

"Is that your wish?"

"That is my wish."

"Then your wish is my command." Thranduil inclined his head regally, but he couldn't hide his smile and neither could Torwen squelch her laughter.

"Be well, beloved."

"Stay safe, my King."

* * *

 

Thranduil smiled often and then someone would find themselves spectacularly outwitted, outclassed and outmatched. Torwen could swear Thranduil had facial expressions down to a political art, every smirk a threat, every tilt of his regal head a declaration of war. But there were times, private times, when no one was looking but her, when his smiles took ages off his eternally beautiful face and made him look almost carefree. Made him look every bit the spoiled Elfling he must have been back in Doriath when the world was young and he was safe. When he smiled like that, it made Torwen want to promise him the moon and stars and all that he may ever desire. She had a feeling that, as with everything else, he was now doing it on purpose.

The King had arrived in the Clearing the following day after they saw each other at the camp, with a surprisingly small escort. The Captain of the First Watch had almost beaten the King in his haste to pay his respects to the Lady Torwen, which set the tone for a relaxed, intimate dinner in the House under the Oak, between the royal couple and their attendants, the Marchwarden's household and Torwen's own. Glaewon was an entertaining host and the wine flowed freely, so once tongues were loosened, hunting stories were aplenty. Mirael was laughing easily again and Lirael was refilling the Captain's cup more times than it was strictly necessary, which made Torwen's keen eyes sparkle with mischief. It was all going according to plan.

"Come with me, my King. There is something I've been meaning to show you."

It startled Thranduil, but then again, Torwen's forwardness always did. Her eyes were clear, though, and she looked eager and happy. He rose to follow her, resigned in the knowledge that he would most likely follow her to the depths of the underworld should she but hint at it. As she led the way, Thranduil saw that Torwen's little house was by no means little, but it was airy, less oppressive than his Halls. It pained the King to realise how much she was actually giving up to be with him. Her home. Her freedom.

"My Lady Mother didn't take much with her when she left. But she didn't actually leave me with anything of great value."

There was a catch in Torwen's otherwise clear, strong voice that made Thranduil, who'd sworn to himself he'd keep to all rules of propriety under her roof, no matter how great the temptation, reach out and touch her, comfort her, love her until she forgot her name. But Torwen took his hand and joyfully carried on. "Save for this one special thing. Oh, you're going to love this!"

"My love, she left me you. That is enough."

Torwen blushed to the roots of her already red hair.

"My, but you look lovely in pink…" Thranduil bent down to kiss her, but Torwen avoided him with a laugh. "I am serious. Let me show you."

And never letting go of his hand, she dragged him through her chambers, to the little solar she liked using best. On the carved wooden table there was a small box, reverently placed away from the chaos that was Torwen's books, daggers and arrow heads littering every available surface around.

"She left gowns behind, a whole stack of them, but I never wear them. My mother was quite tall you see, so I'd have to fix them. I tried wearing one once, but the fabric kept snagging and I ended up ruining it. I mostly let Mirael play with them now. She likes that breezy, princessy feel. You should see how careful she is when she's wearing one. She hardly even sits!"

Thranduil could see. He could see a young Torwen, struggling to escape the shadow her mother's famed beauty cast. The shadow of her warrior brother. The shadow of her father's nobility.

"Torwen…"

"But," Torwen's smiling eyes turned to him, "there is a treasure she did leave me with. I used to spend hours gazing at it. I'd sneak up in my mother's chambers and take a peek at it. I never even dared touch it, but still I'd get grounded for it."

Torwen laughed, gently tracing the carvings on the box. "Till one day, my mother told me that, if I behaved and acted like a proper Lady, she'd let me have it. So, here it is." Torwen placed the box in Thranduil's hands carefully and as reverently as he'd ever seen Torwen handle anything. Before he opened it, though, he took hold of Torwen's hand and kissed it. "Know this. Nothing in here could ever be more precious than you. I will love it because you love it." In fact, after having heard of Torwen's strenuous relationship with her mother, Thranduil was quite certain he was going to hate it.

"Don't be silly. It's beautiful. Open it."

So Thranduil did. Nestled on a bed of black velvet, white gems of pure starlight winked at him. The hair clip was beautifully crafted, with dozens of leaf shaped diamonds attached to a silver stem. "I have decided I shall wear it at our wedding. I've always wanted to find the right moment to take it out of the box and I think this is it. It is a jewel worthy of a Queen, is it not?"

Thranduil was contemplating various jewels that were worthy of his Queen and all of them a gift of love, not of obligation, but Torwen's eyes were riveted to the sparkling clip. He softly caressed the side of her face to make her look at him.

"You could come to me in nothing at all, and truthfully, I'd prefer it, and you would be worthy of this King. More than you could ever possibly imagine."

For a moment, Torwen panicked. "You do not like it?"

Thranduil kissed her brow and closed the lid of the box. "It is exquisite, my love. But I am jealous of it. Nothing I ever gave you has made you this happy."

"No, but I wanted to make _you_ happy. I know how much you like these gems. I only meant to…"

"Easy, Torwen!" and Thranduil gathered her in his arms. "I am not displeased. The jewel is beautiful and so are you. And the two of you together will shine brighter than any star."

"Not if you insist on wearing your gold flowing robe. With your colouring, you'll look prettier than me."

"Naturally. I _am_ prettier than you."

Torwen's hearty laugh eased a tightening in Thranduil's chest. He had felt it when entering the Clearing but he could not name it. This feeling that came from Torwen smiling at him. The heat of her luminous eyes and the sound of her voice, it was all love. Torwen's true love.

"On the morrow," Torwen suddenly said, looking not at him, but at his chest, which was as high up as she could reach, "I will return with you to the capital."

"My love…"

"No, listen. This house…it belongs to Mirael and Eldir now. I imagine it always did. The Marchwarden cannot leave and Eldir needs to move out of a house full of women and his uncle's endearing ego. I have already spoken with her, so Lira will come with me, as my Lady in waiting. The borderlands are not a safe place for her. She belongs in the capital. Elwen would not be swayed though. She wants to stay and I must respect her decision. She is wiser than I and one day I will see the wisdom of her decision, I am sure. So, you see, there's nothing to keep me here anymore. All paths lead to you. And I must follow. As does my heart."

Inside his mind, Thranduil had heard those words a thousand times. In his dreams, he'd seen the love shinning in Torwen's eyes every night. But nothing, no dream or vision, could ever come close to the light of Torwen's spirit burning bright in his arms. It was enough to undo him.

Slowly, carefully, he opened the chambers of Torwen's heart and walked in. At last, he was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first envisioned the story, it was only a couple of chapters long, going up to the events of the Hobbit, but it ran away with me. So I will ask you to be patient as I juggle time and inspiration to finish this.


	5. Of love, forever

**DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Making no profit.**

**WARNING: Rated Mature. Because Thranduil is an Elf of his word.**

* * *

 

**_Of love, forever_ **

**_\- In which promises are kept –_ **

She was truly remarkable, his beloved was. Nothing under the light of Eru was as exquisite as Torwen's perfect body wracked by wave upon wave of pleasure. Her very soul rippled with the effects of his touch. Thranduil's hands were full of her soft flesh, her hair was tangled around his neck and he was so deep inside her, they were no longer two separate beings, but one tightly bound entity of light and love and pulsing, burning lust.

* * *

 

Torwen had come to him freely and wildly, quickly dispatching with the tedious requirements of a royal wedding. The brightest souls of Elvendom had attended, all fair beyond compare, and still Torwen had been the fairest. Thranduil understood power, knew what it was to be shaped by it intimately, and all of his kith and kin gathered under his green woods had it in spades – from Elrond of Rivendell, battle tried and wise, to the tall Galadriel, the Elfen witch whose mere presence was enough to shake the foundations of this Middle-earth. Yet none had Torwen's fierceness, the singular ability to take command of a roomful of gods and leave them reeling in her wake.

Her eyes had never been brighter. No jewel he possessed could rival the glittering gold of her gaze, steady and strong and locked unto him. She'd walked to him under the stars peeking through his great Halls, all dressed in shimmering gold and sparkling silver, her magnificent hair as wild as the beasts that roamed his forests. She'd given him the words, the promise under the watchful eyes of Eru and all His children gathered for the wedding feast of Thranduil King and Torwen, the Last Princess of Doriath, and he'd given her his all. His heart. His soul.

His love.

As the vows were exchanged, Thranduil had a brief moment when he'd felt empty, as if Torwen had taken everything he was and would ever be and filled herself with the very essence of his being. She looked larger the life and otherworldly, a pillar of light that obliterated the mere notion of his path through the ages.

And then…

…then she smiled and the love that washed through him was enough to make Thranduil Oropherion, the King of the Woodland Realm, better – _more –_ than he could have ever hoped to be.

* * *

 

After that, Thranduil did not remember much of the actual wedding feast. He must have gotten around to exchanging a few words with his more distinguished guests because he could distinctly recall Galadriel – that strange, elusive creature – smirking his way, her blue eyes full of mirth.

"You must come and feast together in Lorien," she'd said, her words honey warm, yet resolute.

Galadriel had liked Torwen, had followed her with ancient and cool eyes, and Thranduil thought he knew why. Elves could be an unmoving lot. The world was forever blooming, but the Fair Folk could linger in the shadow of a memory, of a thought. Torwen could not comprehend such resignation. It was not in her nature to bow down to the passage of time, even as it crawled at a slower pace for Elves than for the other people of Middle-earth. Torwen could move mountains and often did. Hers was a freedom Galadriel coveted and yet feared.

"Elves are creatures of the twilight," his father, Oropher King, had once said. "One foot here, one foot there, we are forever straddling the line between light and darkness. We tilt this way and we tilt that way and the world burns." With Torwen, Thranduil had discovered that darkness was not the absence of light, but that it existed because of it, just like his beloved could love and fight him with the same breath.

But Torwen had not fought him – _much –_ that night. She'd been gracious with his – _their_ – guests, utterly charming and enchanting. She'd even complimented the musicians on their performance, although Thranduil knew the harp served only to invite boredom at Torwen's table. All of this he had watched her do throughout the night, until she'd made herself scarce and his Halls had dimmed a little. He'd found her easy enough though, in his chambers - as he often did, for Torwen had no notion of boundaries and toyed with propriety at her leisure - standing in a pool of her own sparkling clothes, ripping her mother's leaf jewel from her hair.

"This thing has been hurting me all night", she'd said, beautiful with only the satin of her hair for wear.

Thranduil had been hurting all his life. But once he settled Torwen in his arms – _his love, his Queen, his wife_ – he forgot it all: the bareness of his existence, the shade of death that had tainted most of his impossibly long years, everything save Torwen's bright fire and the way it had licked and lapped at him until he'd made his own little pool of clothes. Torwen had moaned, deep and low, her body moving against his, a raging sea upon an immovable shore, as the fever that had ailed her throughout the night spiked at the touch of Thranduil's cool skin.

"My dreams have been mad of late," she'd whispered between kisses across his chest, up on his neck, which was as far as she could reach, if she did not snare him closer. "Mad with want of you…"

"Torwen…"Thranduil had laughed.

Swiftly, he'd lifted her up in his arms, and kissed her pretty, crazy words right out of her mouth.

She'd bloodied his lips in return.

He'd left fire in the wake of his roaming hands.

She almost, nearly growled her impatience with him and Thranduil learned that this would not be a silent affair, so he feasted on her breasts – _sweet, oh so sweet –_ while she was panting against the crown of his head, her hands hopelessly tangled in his hair. He could feel the magic they were making thundering between them, bridging the void between their souls with coils harder than the precious metals of their wedding rings or the diamonds that had shined from Torwen's blood red hair. Slick with sweat and fragrant with love, Torwen had wound herself around him, her body taut and restless, the all consuming passion of their union threatening to flood them both.

"I promised you this, beloved. Now sing for me."

He'd readied her with his fingers, spreading her welcoming warmth, doling out her pleasure touch by torturous touch until her eyes burnt bright, bright as gold, bright as fire, bright as the love he had for her. She gasped. She screamed when Thranduil just barely stroked the right cords and she arched her back in an agony of desire. But his Torwen was ravenous and impatient. She'd caught his wrist in her strong hand and with a wet whisper and a lick of her tongue over the shell of his pointed ear and a nip at the top, she'd commanded him: _Deeper. Faster._

She shattered when he'd complied with his name on her lips.

"Thranduil, my King…"

He'd kissed her long, kissed her hard, stole her breath and gave it back to her, until between pants and bruising kisses to her full lower lip, she'd whispered silkily: "You are… a battle I cannot win…"

Thranduil laughed against the side of her neck, in the crook of her shoulder, and with a decisive thrust, he claimed his victory. He was not gentle and Torwen had not shut her eyes. She could feel him, this still, golden invader, deep within her body, dark within her soul, his blue eyes burning with the cold fire of the distant stars. This was her King, her battle lord, a tall glass of perfectly contained violence, dangerous and deadly, when she wanted him loose, unbound and unchecked. She wanted the storm in his eyes whenever she disobeyed him, the rain of blood he released whenever he thought her in danger. She wanted the weight of his body crushing her, claiming her, making a place for her in his soul.

Torwen braced herself on her forearms and pushed upwards, bringing them closer, reveling in the wet sound of their union. Her skin was burning where they touched. It drove her mad, the hardness of him against the flesh made tender from his kisses. She licked her lips and then she licked his until he finally engaged and opened and then she fused their mouths together, her tongue dancing along his. She liked the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him beginning to move against her. She bit his perfect cheekbone, wound one arm around his neck and angled her hips so she could take him deeper. "Come to me, now, beloved," she'd said. The fragile bond forged under the light of Eru sung between them, strengthening with each thrust, with each broken whisper, until Torwen was warm, creamy and utterly defeated. Until the fire in her soul lit a kindling flame in Thranduil's heart and he closed his eyes against the cresting pleasure. In his mind's eye, Torwen's heavy hair was a river of blood flowing over his pale white arms, but the vision didn't last.

He kissed the column of her throat, leaving purple bruises blooming in his wake. He never stopped the greedy rhythm of his body, seeking with nimble hands to catch the tremors racking Torwen's own. He knew he wouldn't have her at a disadvantage for long. Already Torwen's golden eyes had a glint of steel in them, but he'd waited an eternity for this, he'd take an eternity to quench his lust for Torwen, now wife of Thranduil King.

"You," he'd said, "you are my sweetest victory."

* * *

 

The night was still, but Torwen felt restless. She'd been told of the languor that came with lovemaking and yet she felt nothing of the sort. She was pleasantly sore, true, and sated, but there was a current thrumming through her, like something had crawled underneath her skin and pulled at her heart's strings. She felt full, full to bursting, with some unnamed emotion that stormed its way in and around her.

"You are so strong… I never imagined…" Thranduil murmured against her skin. He was resting against her belly, his hair blanketing her chest. She'd been playing in it for hours, arranging and rearranging the silken strands in fanciful curls. No jewels or silver robes would fit her better than the cool glide of Thranduil's hair against her heated skin. None would feel as good. That thought stirred the banked fire in the part of her Thranduil was currently gently kissing. Torwen cupped the back of his head and scratched his scalp with long sweeps of her short clipped nails.

"What do you mean, my love?"

Thranduil pierced her with a crisp blue stare, but he was smiling, in that secret way of his that never failed to remind Torwen that he was indeed much older than she was. They called her the Last Princess of Doriath, but Torwen was only mildly royal. Thranduil Oropherion was the son of a king. His was the knowledge of long ages.

"We forged a bond tonight, beloved," and Thranduil dipped to place a swooping kiss on Torwen's lean belly. The muscles quivered under his lips and he lingered until the quiver turned into a full blown thrill. "All unions of elves are made in love, but none are as strong as ours. I can feel it in your bones, gliding across your skin, seeping into mine."

All Torwen could feel was the heat of his palms and the brush of his lips and the sweep of his hair-tips against breasts made heavy with love. He liked touching her there. Earlier, he'd offered her sweet summer wine from his cup, but he'd smiled so prettily, his eyes full of laughter and love, she'd spilled the cup. It wasn't exactly laughter that had ignited the fire in his eyes then, as he'd traced the red rivulet makings its sticky passage through the valley of her breasts. It was hunger. The next drop of wine he'd spilled on purpose, just to see it hang from the peak of her right breast before he'd sipped it clean. And Thranduil had feasted until Torwen could no longer tell if she was drunk on wine or love.

But now, her King did not linger. Against her lips, he whispered:

"I never expected such a gift." He almost felt unworthy.

"You have gifted me everything," Torwen replied, gently kissing the corner of his mouth. "I should give something back."

Thranduil smiled and reached out to brush an errant red curl away from her face.

"You have given me more than I could hope for, Torwen, my love."

"Nonsense." Torwen pushed herself up, still a bit miffed that even half standing she could not be free of Thranduil's caging arms. "You are King. You _should_ hope for more. I even urge you to expect it."

Thranduil withdrew, drawing back on his haunches so his Queen may have her space. Loving did not always make Torwen docile. He had taken his due of her and he did not intend to face the dawn without at least another taste, but Torwen's navigating of the new relationship between the two of them was beginning to hit the seas of irritation.

She'd been raised in deference to him and despite Torwen's rather attractive streak of rebeliousness, she was still a good little Elvish soldier attuned to his every move. That's how they'd won battles together, when he'd been a general in his Fathers's army and she, a captain in disguise. But Torwen would not submit for very long. Not that he wanted her to. Thranduil had not knelt for any one, but he'd kneel for her.

And with that encouraging thought in mind, Thranduil took hold of a delicate ankle and bowed for a kiss and a nip.

"So what treats should this King be looking forward to?"

Magnanimous by nature, Torwen allowed the quick bite, both to her ankle and his ingratiated tone, and continued, using the fingers on her wedded hand to exemplify.

"A warm bed every night, for starters."

That settled the Queen's Chambers debate, Thranduil thought with a smirk.

His own parents had not shared a room to the best of his knowledge. In consequence, Thranduil's courtiers – the few that survived from Oropher King's retinue – had tripped over themselves in furnishing a room Torwen had no intention of living in. Thranduil deliberated how much of a waste of time that had proved to be. After a swift consideration – made even swifter by a glimpse of moonlight catching on Torwen's smooth porcelain thigh – Thranduil decided Torwen could rest wherever she damned well pleased as long as it had him in her immediate vicinity: "How…enticing."

Torwen concurred.

"Yes, yes. Not to mention the sound counsel I offer. Significantly less paperwork to boot."

The snort Thranduil produced was rather undignified and it earned him a piercing golden stare. The delicate ankle he'd been caressing also made less than delicate contact with his ribs, so Thranduil rapidly conceded: "Sounds very promising, my dear."

That seemed to appease Torwen somewhat because her eyes took to a warmer shade of gold. Everything tense in her seemed to unwind as well and when next she spoke, she was almost shy.

"And a son. A golden boy, with your hair," Torwen reached out and drew closer, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger, "and your eyes." She brushed her knuckles across the side of his face, kissed him once and rested her forehead against his chin. "He will be my greatest gift."

A chill ran through Thranduil's heart. It was fleeting, the feeling, but it settled in the shadowed corner the desolation of Sauron had left in his heart.

Thranduil quickly gathered Torwen closer and said, his voice light, for we would entertain no darkness tonight: "Why not a daughter? A fierce woodland creature, with your hair…"

Torwen's hair was a heavy veil of red silk and Thranduil could probably wrap himself twice in it, but Torwen was not always partial to it. She coveted the silver gold strands of Lirael and fair Galadriel. "Star spun, not blood drenched" she'd often say, but Thranduil was mesmerized by it. Even now, he could not help but fist his hand in its length and watch it turn to fiery life in the flickering light of the candles.

"…fine, my hair. But not my temper."

"I'd welcome them both, beloved." Thranduil laughed. "Your hair and your temper." He kissed Torwen once, twice and once again. "A son and a daughter. I'd welcome everything, as long as…"

… _you wouldn't leave me._ But where would she go? There was no place he wouldn't follow. Thranduil did not say it, though, and banished the wish. And even if Torwen looked confused for a moment, waiting for him to finish his words, she mellowed in his embrace when he whispered over the top of her head: "…as long as it's what you wish."

He could feel her smiling against his shoulder before, presumably in retaliation for his earlier transgressions, Torwen took a bite of his skin and laughed at his yelp.

"I'll drink to that!"

And true to her word and quick as a sprite, she jumped from the bed and fished his golden overcoat from the floor.

"This is ridiculous, I could fit an entire army in here."

The coat was huge on her, true, but Torwen's penchant for appropriating Thranduil's clothes amused the King. It seemed only fair since she already owned his heart that she ravage his wardrobe. She'd tried on one of his crowns once and laughed herself silly when it kept slipping down the back of her head. Then she'd nearly ripped it in two trying to untangle it from her hair. They'd decided – meaning Torwen had declared and he'd obliged her – that she'd keep her solid silver circlet as her crown and stay away from Thranduil's ornate headpieces. Luckily, his jewels were safe, for Torwen had no great need of them and rarely wore any. Thranduil had yet to divine if it was because her Lady Mother had not deemed Torwen worthy of having any or because she honestly did not care for them. Still, he hadn't missed the twinkle in her eyes when he'd presented her with her wedding ring or when she wore her Mother's hairpin and the King had a plan to ignite that twinkle into a flame. He'd made arrangements.

Looking at her now, against the golden backdrop of his coat, Torwen's thoroughly mussed hair was a red haze. Thranduil had even begun to favour his red sashes of late, he ruefully realized. She was sweet poison, his Queen was, flowing and pooling in every crevice of his existence.

She was watering down her wine, the little cheat. But he'd known that. Torwen did not enjoy relinquishing control for very long, if at all.

Thranduil stretched and followed her to the table. He'd give her her precious control. He'd give her so much. So much more.

Bereft of his coat, Thranduil approached her naked. He felt light and carefree, for the first time in centuries. But around Torwen, he wrapped himself heavily. He brushed her fingers away from the cups as he unfolded the coat from her body. "I am not thirsty."

He spun her around, her gaze luminous and the snark mute on her lips. "I am not thirsty for wine. Not tonight." Not any night since he'd laid eyes on her.

The coat was heavy. He only had to ease it gently away and it fell open, clinging to one pale shoulder. Her body had been white as fresh snow, cool as spring water, but it burned to the touch now. She was pink all over, from the tips of her high, round breasts to the shadowed apex of her thighs. And there the rivers of her passion ran bountiful.

The threads of his yearning knotted in his chest. How he loved her… How he wanted her...

"Thranduil…"

Even her voice was a spell. And its binding power brought him to his knees. He tunneled his hands under his coat and her bottom and Torwen hoisted herself up on her arms on the table. He breathed in her scent, like sampling a fine wine. But nothing could measure up as the first sip turned into a taste and a taste into mouthful and Thranduil forwent the savouring for the exquisite pleasure pain of the sating. He used his teeth to punish, his tongue to soothe and his lips to bring forth the pleasure until Torwen opened to him like a flower to the wind. He licked and laved and lapped between her thighs while Torwen shivered and moaned and cried his name above him. He did not stop. He could not stop. Not when her taste was honey on his tongue and she moved so fluidly against his mouth. Torwen rode the storm until she was spent and her arms gave out underneath her and even then she could feel Thranduil drinking his fill of her, one of her legs carelessly draped on his strong shoulder.

She did not remember him standing up after, just the feeling of weightlessness and his arms around her. Blindly, she touched his face and felt the tears and then her passion dampening his lips. She was his now, indelibly marked for eternity. But when they kissed and his tears mixed with hers, the voice, the whisper in the light of the slowly creeping sun, was theirs.

_My love. Forever._

* * *

 

**A/N: Well there, I did it. The smut I have been actually craving since I started writing this story. I do intend to eventually catch up to the events of the Hobbit, but it might take a while. I think this is a good place to wait though, don't you?**

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Alright, I have succumbed to the awesomeness which is our Lord Thranduil. Since few have dared to tackle his backstory, I said what the hell, I'll try it. Hope the muse stays strong in me so I can finish this properly. Until then, please leave a review:) Thanks!


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